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I'll  sMOKr  your  skin-coat,  ah  i  catch  yol!  right; 

D'H^A'!     LOOK  TO'T;    I'  I  AITH  ,   I    WILL,    I '  FAITH  . 

/in^  John  Actll.Sc  I. 


f ''  i 


,  Jutn<at  .-wure  fffOt*.  eouAftL  dLtWiat  sTJliw  35^-. 


NEW      YORK, 

27     Be  eltmaTi  .Street 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/completeworksofsOOshakrich 


THE 


COMPLETE   WORKS 


OF 


SHAKESPEARE, 

FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  TEXT: 

CAREFULLY    COLLATED    AND    COMPARED    WITH    THE    EDITIONS    OP 

HALLIWELL,   KNIGHT,   AND    COLLIER: 
.VITH  HISTORICAL  AKD  CRITICAL  mTRODUCTIONS,  AND  NOTES  TO  EACH  PLAY; 

A  LIFE   OF  THE   GREAT   DRAMATIST,    ^ 

By     CHARLES     KNIGHT. 

Illustrated 

Wllfl    NEW  AND   FINELY   EXECUTED   STEEL   ENGE,AVINGS    CHIEFLY   PORTRAITS 

IN   CHARACTER   OF   CELEBRATED   AMERICAN   ACTORS,    DRAWN 

FROM  LIFE,  EXPRESSLY  FOR  THIS  EDITION. 

HISTORICAL  I>I^A.YS. 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHNSON     &     MILES, 

27  Beekman  Street. 


_    ; ■^-..-i.:, ,,:>.' 


!  ! 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congr^««. 
Br    JOHNSON,    FRY,    AND    COMPANY, 
In  iiie  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Conrt  of  the  United  States  for  tb*^  siowtheru  District  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS 


PAQS 

KING  JOHN 643 

KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND 681 

FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH 723 

SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH 769 

KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH 815 

FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH 859 

SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH ". 903 

THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH 951 

KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD 997 

KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH   1063 


f-4^649 


§nm[  SntrnhrtinE 


iistnrirttl  l^kp  of  llmkespfart 


BY  JAMES  ORCHARD  UALLIWELL. 


''PHE  historical  dramas  of  Shakespeare,  although  separately  they  are  examples  of  his  high  drjunatic 
art,  are  so  connected  with  one  another,  it  appeared  preferable  to  unite  our  observations  upon  them 
into  one  Introduction,  rather  than  make  discursive  notes  upon  each ;  and,  by  this  arrangement,  we 
ehall  be  better  enabled  to  place  the  poet's  continuity  of  design  in  a  clearer  point  of  view.  It  is  obvious 
that  the  subject  will  readily  admit  of  unnatural  expansion,  and,  indeed,  scarcely  a  single  Editor  escapes 
falling  into  the  temptation  of  mixing  historical  discussion  with  his  observations  on  these  plays;  but 
this  is  unquestionably  a  course  that  may  be  better  dispensed  with ;  for  Shakespeare  merely  adopted 
the  statements  of  the  English  chronicles  without  any  hesitation,  or,  if  differing  from  them,  only  in 
cases  where  tradition  or  popular  sources  had  furnished  him  with  other  versions,  in  the  same  way  that, 
in  his  Comedies,  he  availed  himself  of  contemporary  novels.  The  object  was  to  turn  these  chronicles 
into  regular  historical  dramas.  It  is,  therefore,  quite  idle  to  refer  to  the  authentic  data  of  history  in 
opposition  to  the  pictures  of  the  times  recorded  by  the  great  dramatist. 

The  first  in  order  of  the  historical  plays.  King  John,  was  founded  on  an  earlier  drama  called 
"  The  first  and  second  part  of  the  troublesome  Reign  of  John,  King  of  England,"  which  was  first 
published  in  1591.  Shakespeare  probably  wrote  his  play  shortly  after  that  year,  but  no  quarto  edition 
of  it  is  known  to  exist,  and  it  is  first  mentioned  by  Meres  in  the  year  1598.  It  is  worthy  of  remark, 
that  much  of  the  ridicule  against  the  monks  and  nuns  in  the  older  play  has  been  altogether  omitted 
by  Shakespeare,  who  has,  in  fact,  generally  improved  the  incidents ;  but  no  comparison  can  be  insti- 
tuted between  the  two  pieces. 

King  John  was  not  printed  till  the  foho  of  1623  made  its  appearance.  The  next  play  in  order, 
JRichard  the  Second,  was  printed  no  less  than  four  times  during  the  author's  life;  first  in  1597,  under 
the  title  of,  "  The  Tragedie  of  King  Richard  the  Second,  as  it  hath  beene  pubHkely  acted  by  the  Right 
Honourable  the  Lorde  Chamberlaine  his  servants :  London,  Printed  by  Valentine  Simmes  for  Andrew 
Wise,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  in  Paules  Church-yard  at  the  sigiie  of  the  Angel."  This  edition  '  i 
does  not  contain  that  portion  of  the  fourth  act  in  which  Richard  is  introduced  to  make  the  surrender 
of  his  crown,  which  first  appeared  in  the  quarto  of  1608,  which  is  entitled,  "The  Tragedie  of  King 

628 


i  1 


I 


Richard  the  Second,  toith  new  additions  of  the  Parliament  sceane,  and  the  Deposing  of  King  Richard^ 
as  it  hath  been  lately  acted  by  the  Kinges  Majesties  servantes  at  the  Globe."  Mr.  Knight  seems  to 
be  of  opinion  that  there  are  sufficient  similarities  between  the  story  of  Richard  the  Second^  as  related 
in  Daniel's  'Civ-il  Warres,'  1595,  and  Shakespeare's  plays,  to  warrant  the  belief  either  that  the  poem 
of  Daniel  was  known  to  Shakespeare,  or  that  the  play  of  Shakespeare  was  known  to  Daniel ;  but  the 
coincidences  he  has  pointed  out  are  scarcely  strong  enough  to  warrant  such  a  conclusion. 

The  next  plays  in  order,  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  are  unquestionably  the  most  original  of 
Shakespeare's  historical  dramas ;  or,  in  other  words,  to  avoid  ambiguity,  he  was  not  so  deeply  indebted 
in  those  two  plays  to  the  labours  of  previous  dramatists.  We  recognise  in  them  the  forms  only  of  the 
old  compositions;  and  they  have  undergone  so  complete  a  transformation,  in  passing  through  his  hands, 
that  little  else  than  the  title  and  general  character  can  be  traced.  These  still  remain  in  an  old  play 
entitled  "The  famous  victories  of  King  Henry  the  Fifth,"  which  has  been  satisfactorily  proved  to 
have  been  written  before  the  year  1588.  The  connexion  which  exists  betv/een  a  character  in  that 
production.  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  and  Shakespeare's  ever-famous  fat  knight,  is  a  subject  to  which  I  wish 
to  draw  the  particular  attention  of  the  reader.  I  propose  to  discuss,  and  I  hope  I  shall  be,  able  satis- 
factorily to  set  at  rest  a  question  which  has  arisen,  grounded  on  a  tradition  of  no  earher  date  than  the 
commencement  of  the  eighteenth  century,  whether  Shakespeare  in  the  first  instance  borrowed  the  name 
as  well  as  amplified  the  character  of  the  above-mentioned  nobleman,  who  is  so  highly  distinguished  in 
the  history  of  the  reformed  religion.  This  question  does  not  in  any  way  affect  the  fame  of  Shakespeare. 
It  may  be  good  policy  to  premise  this,  for  I  observe  with  regret  that  there  are  many  leaders  of  our 
inmiortal  poet's  works  who,  without  a  knowledge  of  the  subject,  despise  the  literature  and  criticism 
which  have  set  the  emanations  of  his  genius  in  their  true  historical  light,  and  who  are  also  greatly 
avei-se  to  the  idea  of  accusing  Shakespeare  of  being  indebted  to  previous  writers  for  any  portion  of  the 
material  on  which  he  has  founded  his  dramas.  I  am  now  alluding  to  the  general  reader,  and* not  to 
those  who,  with  a  competent  knowledge  of  contemporary  literature,  have  jnade  it  a  matter  of  study. 
Among  the  numerous  readers  of  Shakespeare  with  whom  I  have  had  the  fortune  to  converse,  I  have 
never  yet  found  one  who  did  not  consider  him,  in  the  words  of  an  author  who  ought  to  have  known 
better,  as  "  the  great  poet  whom  nature  framed  to  disregard  the  wretched  models  that  were  set  before 
him,  and  to  create  a  drama  from  his  own  native  and  original  stores."  The  real  fact  is,  that  no 
dramatist  ever  made  a  freer  use  of  those  "  wretched  models"  than  Shakespeare.  It  may  safely  be 
said  that  not  a  single  plot  of  any  of  his  dramas  is  entirely  his  own.  It  is  true  that  the  sources  of 
some  of  his  plays  have  not  yet  been  discovered,  but  they  are  those  that  we  know  he  would  not  have 
invented,  leaving  the  capability  of  doing  so  out  of  the  question.  There  can,  at  any  rate,  be  no  doubt 
that  all  the  historical  plays  which  are  ascribed  to  Shakespeare  were  on  the  stage  before  his  time,  and 
that  he  was  employed  by  the  managers  to  remodel  and  repair  them,  taking  due  care  to  retain  the 
names  of  the  characters,  and  preserve  the  most  popular  incidents.  In  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  as  I 
have  observed  above,  he  has  so  completely  repaired  the  old  model,  that  they  may  almost  be  considered 
in  the  light  of  original  dramas.  I  can  scarcely  imagine  a  more  interesting  subject  for  literary  enquiry 
than  the  tracing  out  the  originals  of  these  plays,  and  the  examination  of  the  particular  loci  where  the 
master-hand  of  Shakespeare  has  commenced  his  own  labours;  yet  it  is  a  study  so  inadequately 
.encouraged,  and  so  little  valued,  that  few  have  the  courage  to  enlist  in  its  cause.  The  public  appear 
to  consider  it  an  obstacle,  rather  than  otherwise,  to  the  free  reading  of  his  works,  and  wonder  more 
especially  what  possible  connexion  there  can  be  between  literary  history  and  romantic  dramas.  It  was 
but  recently  that  one  of  our  most  learned  and  acute  critics  in  this  way  was  pronounced  a  perfect 
barbarian — a  savage  without  a  poetical  soul,  because  he  fixed  by  historic  wand  the  scene  of  Prospero's 
enchantments.  The  master-stroke  of  the  photogenic  art  was  thought  unfavourable  to  the  interests 
of  true  poetry,  and  a  "  local  habitation  and  a  name"  incompatible  with  the  nature  of  the  theme. 
Surely,  in  common  fairness,  the  "  still-vex'd  Bermoothes"  ought  to  be  expunged,  and  all  the  earthly 
concomitants  deposited,  like  Lampedusa,  in  ethereal  uncertainty. 

But  do  we,  as  Mr.  Hunter  asks,  by  researches  such  as  these,  lose  any  particle  of  the  admiration  in 
which  we  hold  Shakespeare  ?  If  the  positive  be  maintained,  there  is  at  least  a  satisfaction  in  knowing 
what  is  the  real  fact ;  and  there  is  a  love  of  truth,  as  well  as  a  love  of  Shakespeare,  and  a  homage  due 
624 


HISTORICAL  I'LAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


to  both.  A  careful  historian  would  pause,  no  matter  how  strong  the  evidence  was,  before  he  would 
attribute  to  any  genius,  however  vast,  the  mighty  revolutions  in  poetry  or  science  which  are  vulgarly 
ascribed  to  Shakespeare.  The  labours  of  successive,  or  more  rarely,  combined  minds,  aione  are  able  tc 
accomplish  such  things.     When  Pope  said — 


Nature  and  Nature's  laws  lay  hid  in  night : 
God  said,  "  Let  Newton  be,"  and  all  was  light ! 


be  expressed  himself  very  eloquently  ;  and  the  opinion  implied  in  the  couplet  has  become  a  populai 
dogma.  But  Newton  owed  as  much  to  Kepler  as  Shakespeare  did  to  Marlowe  ;  and  Coleridge  could 
not  have  been  far  wrong  when  he  extended  the  weight  of  those  obligations  even  beyond  the  boundary 
usually  adopted  by  professed  critics.  In  plain  words,  Shakespeare  did  not  invent — he  perfected  a 
drama  already  ennobled  by  the  labours  of  others  ;  and  the  history  of  that  drama  forms  a  very  curious 
and  important  epoch  in  our  vernacular  literature. 

Plays  were  ascribed  to  Plautus,  if  we  may  believe  Aulus  Gellius,  which  he  only  retouched  and 
polished.  They  were,  to  use  his  own  expression,  retractatce  et  expoUtoe.  It  was  so  also  with  Shake- 
speare ;  but  hwi  now  would  be  guilty  of  ascribing  that  "  drum  and  trumpet"  thing,  called  the  "  First 
Part  of  Heniy  VI.,  to  his  pen,  written  doubtlessly  before  he  entered  the  arena  of  dramatic  competi- 
tion, though  it  may  have  been  afterwards  slightly  revised  by  him.  I  can  see  little  evidence  or  reason 
for  including  it  in  his  works,  but  as  it  is  inserted  as  a  genuine  play,  I  will  take  it  as  a  document  in  the 
history  of  his  historical  dramas,  rather  than  consider  it  to  have  any  necessary  connexion  with  them. 
To  tax  Shakespeare  with  the  character  of  Fastolf,  as  exhibited  in  that  play,  is  an  absolute  libel  on  his 
genius.  Who  indeed  can  reasonably  accuse  him  of  introducing  the  same  character  in  Henry  VI., 
whose  death  he  had  described  in  Henry  V.  in  a  manner  so  remarkable  ?  There  is  not,  in  fjxct,  anv 
ground  for  believing  that  the  characters  of  Fastolf  and  FalstafF  have  any  connexion  whatever  with  each 
other.  I  much  doubt  whether  Shakespeare  even  had  the  former  in  his  memory,  when  he  changed 
the  name,  as  I  shall  afterwards  show,  of  Oldcastle  to  FalstatF;  and  I  think  it  extremely  probable  that 
the  latter  name  might  have  been  inserted  merely  for  the  purpose  of  marking  one  of  the  principal  ti'aits 
in  his  character. 

Yet  we  find  historians  and  journalists  constantly  giving  countenance  to  this  vulgar  en-or,  and 
Fastolf  is  mentioned  as  the  prototype  of  Falstaff  with  as  much  positiveness  as  though  he  were  an 
actual  original  of  a  genuine  historical  character.  Mr.  Beltz,  in  his  recent  work  on  the  Order  of  the 
Garter,  and  a  reviewer  of  that  book  in  a  literary  journal  of  high  pretensions,  have  fallen  into  the  same 
error.  The  point  is  of  importance,  because  it  affects  a  good  deal  of  our  reasoning  on  the  sources 
of  Shakespeare's  most  celebrated  historical  plays ;  and  we  are  surprised  to  find  so  many  writers  ot 
reputation  giving  their  authority  to  the  common  mistake. 

This  leads  us  to  old  Fuller,  who  was  one  of  the  earliest  delinquents.  In  speaking  ui  Sir  John 
Fastolt^  he  says : 


I  i 


To  avouch  him  by  many  arguments  valiant,  is  to  maintain  that  the  sun  is  bright,  though  since  the  stage  hath  been 
overbold  with  his  memory,  making  him  a  thrasonical  puj',  and  emblem  of  mock  valour. 

True  it  is,  Sir  John  Oldcastle  did  first  bear  the  brunt  of  the  one,  being  made  the  make-sport  in  all  play>  for  a 
coward.  It  is  easily  known  out  of  what  purse  this  black  penny  came  ;  the  Papists  railing  on  him  for  a  heretick,  and 
therefore  he  must  also  be  a  coward,  though  indeed  he  was  a  man  of  arms,  every  inch  of  him,  and  as  valiant  as  any 
in  his  age. 

Now  as  I  am  glad  that  Sir  John  Oldcastle  is  put  out,  so  I  am  sorry  that  Sir  John  Fastolfe  is  put  in,  to  relieve  hin 
memory  in  this  base  service,  to  be  the  anvil  for  every  dull  wit  to  strike  upon.  Nor  is  our  comedian  excusable  by 
Bome  alteration  of  his  name,  writing  him  Sir  John  Falstafe,  and  making  him  the  property  of  pleasure  for  King  Henry 
the  Fifth  to  abuse,  seeing  the  vicinity  of  sounds  intrench  on  the  memory  of  that  worthy  knight — and  few  do  heed  the 
inconsiderable  difierence  in  spelling  of  their  names. 


This  extract  from  Fuller,  a  very  credible  writer,  will  of  itself  go  a  considerable  way  toward* 
establisliing  the  truth  of  Rowe's  tradition  ;  but  I  have  other  and  more  important  documents  lo  latro- 
duce  to  the  notice  of  the  reader,  by  means  of  which  I  hope  to  be  enabled  to  prove — 

^  625 


n 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE 


1.  That  the  stage  was  in  the  possession  of  a  rude  outline  of  FalstafF  before  Shakespeare  wrote 
either  part  ot  Henry  IV.,  under  the  name  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle. 

2.  That  the  name  of  Oldcastle  was  retained  for  a  time  in  Shakespeare's  Henry  IV.,  but  changed 
to  Falstaff  before  the  play  was  printed. 

3.  That,  in  all  probability,  some  of  the  theatres,  in  acting  Henry  IV.,  retained  the  name  of 
Oldcastle  after  the  author  had  made  the  alteration. 

4.  That  Shakespeare  probably  made  the  change  before  the  year  1593. 

I  must  leave  the  consideration  of  the  first  of  these  propositions,  until  I  have  examined  the  second, 
because  in  this  case  the  similarity  consists  rather  in  the  adoption  of  the  same  dramatis  personce  and 
subject  by  Shakespeare  and  his  predecessors,  than  in  the  manner  in  which  they  are  treated.  My  first 
witness  for  the  truth  of  the  second  problem,  which,  with  the  others,  I  hope  to  transform  into  theorems,  is 
one  whose  veracity  is  unimpeachable,  because  he  could  have  had  no  possible  object  in  pubhshing  an 
untruth — I  mean  Dr.  Richard  James,  librarian  to  Sir  Robert  Cotton,  a  contemporary  of  Shakespeare, 
and  an  intimate  friend  of  "  rare  "  Ben  Jonson.  He  may  thus,  through  the  latter  dramatist,  have  had 
access  to  the  very  best  sources  of  information  for  the  account  which  he  gives  in  the  following  dedicatory 
epistle,  prefixed  to  his  work  entitled  '  The  Legend  and  Defence  of  the  Noble  Knight  and  Martyr, 
Sir  John  Oldcastel,'  never  published,  but  preserved  with  his  other  manuscripts  in  the  Bodleian  Library, 
and  which  undoubtedly  is  a  most  valuable  independent  testimony  in  favour  of  the  truth  of  Rowe's 
tradition. 

To  my  noble  friend  Sir  Renrye  Bourchier. 

Sir  Han-ie  Bourchier,  yoa  are  descended  of  Noble  Ancestrie,  and  in  the  dutie  of  a  good  man,  loue  to  heare  and  see 
fairo  reputation  preserved  from  slander  and  oblivion.  Wherefore  to  you  I  dedicate  this  edition  of  Ocleve,  where  Sir 
John  Oldcastell  apeeres  to  have  binnc  a  man  of  valour  and  vertue,  and  onely  lost  in  his  own  times  because  he  would  not 
bowe  under  the  foule  superstition  of  Papistrie.  from  whence  in  so  great  light  of  Gosple  and  learning  that  there  is  not  yet 
a  more  universal!  departure  is  to  me  the  greatest  scorne  of  men.  But  of  this  more  in  another  place,  and  in  preface  will 
you  please  to  heare  me  that  which  follows.  A  young  Gentle  Ladie  of  your  acquaintance,  having  read  the  works  of 
Shakespeare,  made  me  this  question  :  How  Sir  John  Falstaffe,  or  Fastolf,  as  it  is  written  in  the  statute  book  of  Maudlin 
Colledge  in  Oxford,  where  everye  daye  that  socictie  were  bound  to  make  memories  of  his  soule,  could  be  dead  in  Harrie 
the  Fifts  time  and  againe  Hue  in  the  time  of  Harrie  the  Sixt  to  be  banisht  for  eowardize  ?  Whereto  I  made  answeare 
that  this  was  one  of  those  humours  and  mistakes  for  which  Plato  banisht  all  Poets  out  of  his  commonwealth,  that  Sii 
John  Falstaflfe  was  in  those  times  a  noble  valiant  soldier,  as  apeeres  by  a  book  in  the  Herald's  office  dedicated  vnto 
him  by  a  herald  who  had  binne  with  him  if  I  well  remember  for  the  space  of  twenty-five  yeeres  in  the  French  wars  : 
that  he  seemes  allso  to  haue  binne  a  man  of  learning  because  in  a  librarie  of  Oxford  1  finde  a  book  of  dedicating 
churches  sent  from  him  for  a  present  vnto  Bishop  Wainflete  and  inscribed  with  his  owne  hand.  That  in  Shakespeare's 
first  show  of  Harrie  the  Fifth,  the  person  with  which  he  undertook  to  playe  a  buflfone  was  not  Falstafie,  but  Sir  John 
Oldcastle,  and  that  offence  beinge  worthily  taken  by  personages  descended  from  his  title,  as  peradventure  by  manie 
others  also  who  ought  to  have  him  in  honourable  memorie,  the  poet  was  putt  to  make  an  ignorant  shifte  of  abusing 
Sir  John  Falstophe,  a  man  not  inferior  of  virtue  though  not  so  famous  in  pietie  as  the  other,  who  gaue  witnesse  unto 
the  trust  of  our  reformation  with  a  constant  and  resolute  martyrdom,  vnto  which  he  was  pursued  by  the  Priests,  Bishops, 
Monks,  and  Friers  of  those  dayes.  Noble  sir,  this  is  all  my  preface.  God  keepe  you,  and  me,  and  all  Christian  people 
from  the  bloodie  designes  of  that  cruel  religion. 

Yours  in  all  observance 

Rich.  Jaues. 

With  respect  to  this  important  letter,  it  will  be  observed  that,  by  the  "  first  showe  of  Harrie  the 
Fifth,"  James  unquestionably  means  Shakespeare's  Henry  IV.  He  could  not  have  confused  Shake- 
speare's play  with  "  The  Famous  Victories,"  for  in  the  latter  drama  the  nomen  of  the  character  of 
Oldcastle  had  not  been  altered.  The  "  young  gentle  ladie"  had  read  the  works  of  Shakespeare,  most 
probably  the  folio  edition,  and  it  is  not  at  all  likely  she  would  have  alluded  to  a  play  which  had  then 
been  entirely  superseded.  James  and  his  lady  friend  also  confuse  the  charactei-s  of  Fastolf  and 
Falstaff,  another  example  of  the  unfortunate  circumstance  of  the  poet  choosing  i  name  so  similar  to 
that  of  the  real  hero. 

Dr.  James  died  at  the  close  of  the  year  1638,  and  consequently  the  work,  from  which  I  have  quoted 
the  letter  given  above,  must  have  been  composed  either  in  Shakespeare's  life-time,  or  shortly  after  his 

626 


I  ! 


1  I 


# 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


death.  On  a  careful  comparison  of  the  handwriting  with  other  of  his  papei*s  which  are  dated,  T 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  1625  was  the  year  in  which  the  manuscript  was  written.  This,  however, 
must  not  by  any  means  be  considered  conclusive ;  but  a  few  years  either  way  are  not  of  great  conse- 
quence. I  have  not  succeeded  in  discovering  the  date  of  Bourchier's  death,  the  person  to  whom  the  dedi- 
catory epistle  is  addressed,  or  I  might  perhaps  have  been  enabled  to  compress  the  uncertain  date  within 
even  narrower  limits.  I  have  said  that  Dr.  James,  whom  Wood  calls  "  a  humourous  person,"  was 
intimate  with  Ben  Jonson.  I  derive  my  knowledge  of  this  fact  from  the  papers  of  the  former  in  the 
Bodleian  Library,  but  I  was  disappointed  in  my  expectation  of  finding  notices  of  other  dramatists 
Jonson  is  frequently  spoken  of  in  high  terms,  and  in  one  letter  particularly  he  receives  the  greatest 
compliment  from  James  that  one  scholar  could  pay  to  another : — *'  Jam  partres  illi  lihenter  spectarent 
ingenium  foecundissimi  Benjamini  Jonsoni^  quem^  et  Thuanus  de  Petro  Bonsardo,  censeo  cum  omni 
antiquitate  comparandum,  si  compia  et  plena  sensihus  poemata  ejus  et  scenica  septemus."  When  Jon 
son's  "Staple  of  News"  was  produced  in  1625,  the  Doctor  addressed  him  poetically  in  the  following 
lines,  which  are  here  ^ven  from  the  same  collection  of  manuscripts : — 


lb  Mr.  Benj.  Johnson,  on  his  Staple  of  News  first  presented. 


Sir,  if  my  robe  and  garbe  were  richly  worth 
The  daringe  of  a  statutes  comming  forth, 
Were  I  a  man  of  law  or  law-maker. 
Or  man  of  courte  to  be  an  undertaker. 
For  judgment  would  I  then  comme  in  and  say 
The  manye  honours  of  your  staple  play : 
But  being  nothing  so,  I  dare  not  haile 
The  mightie  floates  of  ignorance,  who  saile 
With  winde  and  tide, — their  Sires,  as  stories  tell, 
In  our  eighth  Harrie's  time  crown'd  Skelton's  Nell, 
And  the  foule  Bess  of  Whittington  with  greene 
Bayes,  which  on  living. tronkes  are  rarelye  scene, 
Soone  sprung,  soone  fading,  but  deserving  verse, 
Must  take  more  lasting  glorie  from  the  herse ; 
When  vulgars  loose  their  sight,  and  sacred  peeres 
Of  poetrie  conspire  to  make  your  yeeres 
Of  memorie  eternall,  then  you  shal  be  read 
By  all  our  race  of  Thespians,  board  and  bed, 
And  banke  and  boure,  vallie  and  mountaine  will 
Rejoice  to  knowe  sommo  pieces  of  your  skill ! 
Tour  rich  Mosaique  workea,  indeed  by  arte 
And  curious  industry  with  everie  parte 
And  choice  of  all  the  ancients,  so  I  write. 
Though  for  your  sake  I  dare  not  say  and  fighte. 


I  ! 


This  :  rief  digression  fi*om  our  immediate  argument  is  not  without  its  use,  because  it  satisfactorily 
shows  that  Dr.  James  was  acquainted  with  one  of  the  leading  men  in  the  drama  of  the  time,  and  of 
course  renders  his  testimony  on  such  a  subject  of  more  than  ordinary  value.  I  will  now  proceed  to  give 
other,  though  less  important,  authorities  for  the  truth  of  my  second  proposition ;  and  joined  with  those 
already  placed  before  the  reader's  notice,  they  will  be  found,  I  think,  sufficient  to  place  that  conclusion 
ceyond  a  doubt. 

My  first  extract  is  from  a  tract  entitled  "  The  Meeting  of  Gallants  at  an  Ordinarie,  or  the  Walkes 
in  Powles,"  4to.  London,  1604.  The  only  known  copy  of  this  work  is  in  Malone's  collection  in  the 
Bodleian  Library ;  some  gallants  are  "  entering  into  the  ordinarie,"  when  the  following  dialogue  takes 
olace  between  one  of  them  and  the  "  fatte  hoste :" — 


Host.  What,  Gallants,  are  you  come  ?  arc  you  come  ?  welcome,  gentlemen ;  I  have  newes  enough  for  ye  all ;  welcome 
againe ;  and  againe :  I  am  so  fatte  and  pursie,  I  cannot  speake  loude  enough,  but  I  am  sure  you  heare  mee,  or  you  shall 
aeare  me:  Welcome,  welcome,  Gentlemen!  I  haue  Tales,  and  Quailes  for  you;  seate  yourscluea,  Gallantes;  entei 
IJoyes  and  Beardea,  with  dishes  and  Platters;  I  will  be  with  you  againe  in  a  trice  ere  you  looke  for  me. 

621 


Siff.  Shuttlecoclce.  Now,  Signiors,  how  like  you  mine  Host  ?  did  I  not  tell  you  he  was  a  madde  round  knaue,  and  a 
menie  one  too :  and  if  you  chaunce  to  talke  of  fatte  Sir  John  Old-castle,  he  wil  tell  you  he  was  his  great  grandfather, 
and  not  much  vnlike  him  in  Paunch,  if  you  marke  him  well  by  all  descriptions  ;  and  see  where  hee  appeares  againe. 
Hee  told  you  he  would  not  be  longe  from  you ;  let  this  humour  haue  scope  enough,  I  pray,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but 
his  Tales  will  make  vs  laugh  ere  we  be  out  of  our  Porridge. 

This  merely  shows  that  Sir  John  Oldcastle  had  been  represented  somewhere  or  other  as  a  fat  man, 
but  I  know  of  no  existing  account  of  any  such  representation,  unless  the  supposition  of  the  identity 
between  Falstaff  and  Oldcastle  be  correct.  My  next  extract  is  to  the  same  effect,  and  is  taken  from  a 
pamphlet  entitled  "  The  Wandering  Jew  telling  Fortunes  to  Englishmen,"  4to.  Lond.  1640,  p.  38, 
which  was  certainly  written  before  the  year  1630.     The  character  Glutton  is  speaking  : — 


Your  Lordship  this  faire  morning  is  to  fight. 
And  for  your  honour.     Did  you  never  see 
The  play  whecre  the  fat  knight,  hight  Oldcastle, 
Did  tell  you  truely  what  this  honour  was? 

This  single  passage  will  alone  render  my  third  proposition  highly  probable,  viz.^  that  some  of  the 
theatres,  in  acting  Henry  IV.,  retained  the  name  of  Oldcastle  after  the  author  had  altered  it  to  that 
of  Falstaff. 

Early  in  the  year  1600  appeared  'The  first  part  of  the  true  and  honourable  history  of  the  Life 
of  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  the  gocd  Lord  Cobham,  as  it  hath  bene  lately  acted  by  the  Right  Honourable 
the  Earle  of  Nottingham  Lord  High  Admiral  of  England,  his  servants.  Written  by  William  Shake- 
speare,' 4to.  Lond.  The  name  of  the  author  is  supposititious,  and  now  it  is  a  matter  of  wonder  how 
BO  glaring  an  imposition  could  have  been  suffered  to  pass  unpunished,  and  even  unnoticed.  Such 
works  were  then  of  much  less  moment  than  they  are  now.  Bodley,  who  was  then  forming  his  collection, 
Classes  plays  under  the  head  of  "rifle  raffes,"  and  declares  "they  shall  never  come  into  mie  librarie." 
It  is  possible,  however,  that  Shakespeare  may  liave  edited  this  play,  but,  if  he  allowed  his  name  to  be 
put  on  the  title-page,  it  shows  a  carelessness  for  his  own  reputation,  of  which  there  are  but  too  many 
instances.  The  speech  of  Lord  Cobham  (Sir  John  Oldcastle)  to  the  King,  at  p.  27,  may  confirm  my 
conjecture. 

My  gracious  lord,  unto  vcur  mnjesty. 
Next  unfo  my  God,  I  owe  my  life ; 
Ana  what  is  mine,  either  by  nature's  gift, 
Or  fortune's  bounty,  all  is  at  your  service; 


A  chaire,  a  chaire,  sweet  master  Jew,  a  chaire.    All  that  I  say  is  this, — I  'm  a  fat  man.    It  has  been  a  West  Indian  :  ! 

voyage  for  me  to  come  reeking  hither.   A  kitchen-stuffe  wench  might  pick  up  a  living  by  following  me  for  the  fat  which  :  j 

I  loose  in  stradling.   I  doe  not  live  by  the  sweat  of  my  brows,  but  am  almost  dead  with  sweating.    I  eate  much,  but  can  I  I 

talke  little.    Sir  John  Oldcastle  was  my  great-grandfather's  father's  uncle, — I  come  of  a  huge  kindred  1   And  of  you  ; 

desire  to  learne  whether  my  fortune  be  to  die  a  yeare  or  two  hence,  or  to  grow  bigger,  if  I  continue  as  I  doe  in  feeding,  •  | 

for  my  victuals  I  cannot  leave.    Say,  say,  merciful  Jew,  what  shall  become  of  me?  j  j 

!i 

Again  I  have  recourse  to  Fuller,  who,  in  another  work,  repeats  what  he  said  before,  but  asserting     ;  j 
more  distinctly  that  the  character  of  Falstaff  was  substituted  for  that  of  Oldcastle : — 

Stage  poets  haue  themselues  been  very  bold  with,  and  others  very  merry  at,  the  memory  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 
whom  the  have  fancied  a  boon  companion,  a  jovial  royster,  and  yet  a  coward  to  boot  contrary  to  the  credit  of  all  chroni- 
cles, owning  him  a  martial  man  of  merit.  The  best  is  Sir  John  Falstaflfe  hath  relieved  the  memory  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 
and  of  late  is  substituted  buffone  in  his  place,  but  it  matters  as  little  what  petulant  poets  as  what  malicious  Papists  hauo 
written  against  him. 

In  'Amends  for  Ladies,*  4to.  Lond.  1639,  a  play  by  Nathaniel  Field,  which  according  to  Mr.  Collier, 
could  not  have  been  written  before  1611,  Falstaff's  description  of  honour  is  mentioned  by  a  citizen  of 
London  as  if  it  had  been  delivered  by  Sir  John  Oldcastle : — 

1  doe  heare 


!  I 


^^' 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


But  for  obedience  to  the  pope  of  Rome, 

I  owe  him  none ;  nor  shall  his  shaveling  priests 

That  are  in  England,  alter  my  belief. 

If  out  of  Holy  Scripture  they  can  prove 

That  I  am  in  error,  I  will  yield, 

And  gladly  take  instruction  at  their  hands  : 

But  otherwise,  I  do  beseech  your  Grace 

My  conscience  may  not  be  encroach' d  upon. 


These,  1  think,  are  the  only  lines  in  the  whole  play  which  could  with  any  probability  be  ascribed 
to  Shakespeare,  and  even  they  possess  but  slender  claims.  The  prologue  contains  an  argument  for  two 
of  the  propositions  I  have  been  endeavouring  to  establish.     It  is  as  follows  : — 


The  doubtful  tide  (Gentlemen)  preflxt 
Upon  the  argument  we  hauc  in  hand, 
May  breed  suspense,  and  wrongfully  disturbe 
The  peacefull  quiet  of  your  settled  thoughts  : 
To  stop  which  scruple,  let  this  breefe  suffice. 
It  is  no  pamper'd  glutton  we  present. 
Nor  aged  Councellour  to  youthfuU  sinne  : 
But  one,  whose  vertue  shone  aboue  the  rest, 
A  valiant  Martyr,  and  a  vertuous  Pecre, 
In  whose  true  faith  and  loyalty  exprest 
Unto  his  Soueraigne,  and  his  countries  weale 
We  Btriue  to  pay  that  tribute  of  our  loue 
Your  fauours  merit :  Let  faire  Truth  be  grac'd, 
Since  forg'd  invention  former  time  defac'd. 


If  we  now  turn  to  the  following  scene  in  the  same  play,  we  shall  find  that  the  change  in  the 
name  of  Shakespeare's  knight  must  have  been  made  about  the  same  time.  The  king  in  disguise  has 
just  met  with  Sir  John,  the  thieving  parson  of  Wrotham,  when  this  dialogue  takes  place  : — 


!  I 


Priest.  Stand,  true  man,  says  a  thief. 

Khig.  Stand,  thief,  says  a  true  man.    How,  if  a  thief? 

Priest.  Staud,  thief,  too. 

King.  Then,  thief  or  true  man,  I  must  stand,  I  see. 
However  the  world  wags,  the  trade  of  thieving  yet  will 
never  down.     What  art  thou  ? 

Priest.  A  good  fellow. 

King.  So  am  I  too ;  I  see  thou  dost  know  me. 

Priest.  If  thou  be  a  good  fellow,  play  the  good  fellow's 
part.     Deliver  thy  purse  without  more  ado. 

King.  I  have  uo  money. 

Priest,  I  must  make  you  find  some  before  we  part.  If 
you  have  no  money,  you  shall  have  ware,  as  many  sound 
blows  as  your  skin  can  carry. 

King.  Is  that  the  plain  truth  ? 

Priest.  Sirrah,  no  more  ado.  Come,  come,  give  me 
money  you  have.     Dispatch,  I  cannot  stand  all  day. 

King.  Well,  if  thou  wilt  needs  have  it,  there  it  is.  Just 
the  proverb,  one  thief  robs  another.  Where  the  devil  are 
all  my  old  thieves  ?  Falstaffe,  that  villaine,  is  so  fat,  he 
cannot  get  on 's  horse ;  but  methinks  Poins  and  Peto  should 
be  stirring  hereabouts. 

Priest.  How  much  is  there  on  't,  of  thy  word  ? 

Kin^.  A  hundred  pound  in  angels,  on  my  word :  the  time 
has  been  I  would  have  done  as  much  for  thee,  if  thou  hadst 
past  this  vray  as  I  have  now. 

Priest,  Sirrah,  what  art  thou  ?  Thou  seemst  a  gentle- 
man. 


King.  I  am  no  less  ;  yet  a  poor  one  now,  for  thou  hast 
all  my  money. 

Priest.  From  whence  camst  thou  ? 

King.  From  the  court  at  Eltham. 

Priest.  Art  thou  one  of  the  king's  servants  ? 

King.  Yes,  that  I  am,  and  one  of  his  chamber. 

Priest.  I  am  glad  thou'rt  no  worse.  Thou  mayst  the 
better  spare  thy  money ;  and  think  thou  mightst  get  a 
poor  thief  his  pardon,  if  he  should  have  need  ? 

King.  Yes,  that  I  can. 

Priest.  Wilt  thou  do  so  much  for  me,  when  I  shall  have 
occasion  ? 

King.  Yes,  faith,  will  I,  so  it  be  for  no  murder. 

Priest.  Nay,  I  am  a  pitiful  thief.  All  the  hurt  I  do  a 
man,  I  take  but  his  purse.     I  '11  kill  no  man. 

King.  Then  of  my  word  I  '11  do  it. 

Priest.  Give  me  thy  hand  of  the  same. 

King.  There  't  is. 

Priest.  Methinks  the  king  should  be  good  to  thieves, 
because  he  has  been  a  thief  himself,  although  I  think  now 
he  be  turn'd  a  true  man. 

King.  Faith,  I  have  heard  he  has  had  an  ill  name  that 
way  in  's  youth-;  butriiow  canst  thou  tell  that  ho  has  becD 
thief  ? 

Priest.  How  ?  Because  he  once  robb'd  me  before  I  fell 
to  the  trade  myself,  when  that  villanous  guts  that  led 
him  to  all  that  roguery  was  in  's  company  there,  that  Fal- 
staflF. 

629 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  ']"0  THE 


I  next  consider  the  internal  evidence  in  Shakespeare's  plays  themselves  that  Oldcastle  on  ve  sup- 
plied the  place  of  Falstaff.  Every  one  will  remember  the  rout  of  Falstaff  and  his  companions  by  the 
Prince  and  Poins,  near  Gadshill,  when  Henry  tiiumphantly  exclaims — 

Got  with  much  ease.    Now  merrily  to  horse. 
The  thieves  are  scatter'd,  and  possess'd  with  fear 
So  strongly,  that  they  dare  not  meet  each  other ; 
Each  takes  his  fellow  for  an  officer. 
Away,  good  Ned ;  Falstaff  sweats  to  death, 
And  lards  the  lean  earth  as  he  walks  along. 
Were  't  not  for  laughing,  I  should  pity  him. 

It  will  be  seen  that  in  the  fifth  line  a  foot  is  actually  deficient,  and  Oldcastle^  instead  of  Falstaff, 
would  perfectly  complete  the  metre.  It  is  time  that  some  other  explanation  might  be  offered,  perhaps 
equally  plausible ;  but  it  is  at  any  rate  a  singular  coincidence,  that  in  the  veiy  fi"st  place  where  the 
name  Falstaff"  occurs  in  the  text,  an  additional  syllable  should  be  required. 

In  the  second  scene  of  the  first  act,  Falstaff"  asks  the  Prince,  "  Is  not  my  hostess  of  the  tavern  a 
most  sweet  wench  ?"  Prince  Henry  answers,  "  As  the  honey  of  Hybla,  my  old  lad  of  the  castled  I 
consider  this  to  be  a  pun,  in  the  original  play  as  first  written,  on  the  name  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle.  The 
commentators  say  this  passage  was  transferred  from  the  old  play  ;  but,  as  Master  Ford  observes,  "  I 
cannot  put  off"  my  opinion  so  easily."  I  am  confirmed  in  my  conjecture  by  a  passage  in  the  play  of 
•  Sir  John  Oldcastle,'  where  there  is  a  similar  play  upon  words  : — 

There  's  one,  they  call  him  sir  John  Oldcastle, 
He  has  not  his  name  for  nought ;  for  like  a  castle 
Doth  he  encompass  them  within  his  walls. 
But  till  that  castle  be  subverted  quite, 
We  ne'er  shall  be  at  quiet  in  the  realm. 

I  now  beg  to  call  the  reader's  particular  attention  to  a  passage  in  Pan  2,  Act  iii.,  scene  2,  which 
affords  undeniable  proof  that  the  name  of  Oldcastle  once  occupied  the  place  which  Falstaff"  now  holds. 
Shallow  is  recalling  reminiscences  of  his  younger  days,  and  he  brings  Falstaff"  in  among  other  wild 
companions  : 

Then  was  Jack  Falstaff,  now  sir  John,  a  boy,  and  page  to  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of  Norfolk. 

It  was  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  and  not  Falstaff,  who  was  page  to  that  nobleman,  Shakespeare  could  not 
have  fallen  into  an  error  by  following  the  older  play,  because  the  circumstance  is  not  there  mentioned ; 
and  it  would  be  arming  oneself  against  the  force  of  evidence,  which  already  is  so  overpowering  on  the 
opposite  side,  to  class  this  among  Shakespeare's  historical  blunders.  I  do  not  consider  it  necessary  in 
this  place  to  multiply  references  to  the  old  chroniclers,  in  support  of  my  assertion,  that  the  historical 
fact,  to  which  Shakespeare  alludes  in  this  passage,  applies  to  Oldcastle,  and  not  to  Falstaff".  One  will 
te  sufficient,  and  I  have  selected  the  following  extract  from  Weever's  '  Poetical  Life  of  Oldcastle, 
12 mo.,  Lond.  1601,  where  he  is  introduced  speaking  in  his  own  person  : — 

Within  the  spring-tide  of  my  flowring  youth,  • 

He  (the  father)  stept  into  the  winter  of  his  age ; 
Made  meanes  (Mercurius  thus  begins  the  truth) 
Tliat  I  was  made  Sir  Thomas  Mowbrai's  page. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  conclusion  of  the  epilogue  to  the  two  plays  furnishes  us  with  the  most 
Jecisive  evidence  that  Shakespeare  had  delineated  a  character  under  the  name  of  Oldcastle,  which 
had  ^ven  off'ence,  confirming  the  tradition  handed  down  to  us  by  Rowe,  and  the  relation  given  by 
Dr.  James : — 
«S0 


One  word  more,  I  beseech  yoi .  If  you  be  not  too  much  cloyed  with  fat  meat,  our  humble  author  will  continue 
the  story  with  Sir  John  in  it,  and  make  you  merry  with  fair  Katherine  of  France  :  where,  for  anything  I  know,  Falstaff 
shall  die  of  a  sweat,  unless  already  ho  be  killed  with  your  hard  opinions;  for  Oldcastle  died  a  mt.rtyr,  and  this  is  not 
the  man. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  this  subject  further.  The  other  notices  I  have  collected  are  mere 
repetitions  of  what  are  given  above,  and  add  little  weight  to  the  general  evidence.  I  have  now  only 
my  fourth  position  to  defend,  for  I  shall  pass  over  my  first  proposition,  as  a  point  already  decided,  with 
a  reference  to  Mr.  Collier's  work  on  the  English  stage,  who  gives  it  as  his  opinion  that  Shakespeare 
was  indebted  for  the  "bare  hint"  of  the  delightful  creation  of  FalstaflFto  the  old  play  of  "The  Famou? 
Victories,"  and  nothing  more. 

There  must  of  course  be  great  unceitainty  in  fixing  the  precise  date  when  Shakespeare  made  the 
alteration  in  the  name  of  the  character  of  his  fat  knight ;  and  my  conjecture  on  this  point  depends 
entirely  upon  my  opinion  on  the  date  of  the  composition  of  another  play — the  Merry  Wives  oj 
Windsor.  Believing  the  first  sketch  of  that  play  to  have  been  written  in  the  year  1593,  the  name 
of  Oldcastle  must  have  been  changed  to  Falstafi"  before  that  sketch  was  written.  Everything  tends  to 
prove  this.  For  instance,  the  first  metrical  piece  which  occurs  in  it  could  not  have  been  written  with 
the  former  name  : — 

And  I  to  Ford  will  likewise  tell 

How  Falstaff,  varlet  vile. 
Would  haue  her  love,  his  dove  would  prove, 

And  eke  his  bed  defile. 

It  may  be  objected  that,  as  the  Merry  Wives  has  little  or  no  necessary  connexion  with  the  historical 
plays — as  we  have  no  certain  evidence  to  show  whether  it  was  written  before  or  after  the  two  parts  of 
Henry  IV.,  the  settlement  of  the  question  of  names,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  in  the  former,  is  no 
guide  whatever  to  the  period  at  which  the  change  was  made  in  the  other  plays.  In  reply,  I  must 
confess  this  position  is  hypothetical,  unless  my  readers  agree  with  me  in  believing  the  Merry  IVivcs  to 
have  been  written  after  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  and  before  Henry  V.,  a  subject  which  it  would 
be  irrelevant  to  discuss  in  this  place. 

The  First  Part  oi  Henry  IV.  was  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  on  Feb.  25tli,  159Y-8,  under  the 
title  of,  "  A  booke  intitled  the  Historye  of  Henry  the  iiijth,  with  his  battaile  at  Shrewsburye  against 
Henry  Hottspure  of  the  Northe,  with  the  conceipted  mirth  of  Sir  John  Falstafi'e."  Falstaff"  was  the 
name,  then,  at  least  as  early  as  the  year  1597.  After  this  period  we  have  frequent  allusions  to  the 
character,  Ben  Jonson,  in  the  epilogue  to  "Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour,"  acted  in  1599,  thus 
alludes  to  the  "thrasonical  puflf:" — 

Marry,  I  will  not  do  as  Plautus  in  his  Amphytric,  for  all  this,  "  Summim  Jovis  causa  plaudite,  beg  a  plaudite,  for 
God's  sake ;  but  if  you,  out  of  the  bounty  of  vour  good-liking,  will  bestow  it,  why  you  may  in  time  make  lean  Maci- 
lente  as  fat  as  Sir  John  Falstaff, 

I  will  give  one  more  example  of  the  Knight's  popularity  from  Roger  Sharpe's  "  More  Fooles 
Yot,"  4to.,  Lond.  1610  :— 

In  Virosum. 

How  Falstaffe  like  doth  swel  J  Virosus  looke, 
As  though  his  paunch  did  foster  every  sinne ; 
And  sweares  he  is  injured  by  this  booke, — 
His  worth  is  taxt,  he  hath  abused  byn : 
Swell  still,  Virosus,  burst  with  emulation, 
I  neither  taxe  thy  vice  nor  reputation. 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  multiply  similar  extracts,  Mr,  Collier  has  printed  a  document  which 
shows  how  FalstaflF  was  probably  attired  for  the  stage  at  this  early  period,  which  is  attested  by  the 
creditable  name  of  Inigo  Jones.  A  character  is  to  be  dressed  "  like  a  Sir  John  I  alstaff,  in  a  roabe  of 
russett,  quite  low,  with  a  great  belley,  like  a  swolen  man,  long  moustacheos,  the  sheows  shorte,  and 
out  of  them  great  toes,  like  naked  feete :  buskins  to  sheaw  a  great  swolen  leg."     Thus  it  would 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE 


Bcom  that  size  has  always  been  the  prevailing  characteristic  of  FalstafF's  tlieatiicril  appiaiance.  This 
consideration  leads  me  to  remark  that  the  character  of  Oldoastle,  as  exhibited  in  "  The  Famous 
Victories,"  could  not  by  itself  have  developed  so  popular  and  general  a  notion  of  "  hugeness,"  as  that 
suggested  in  the  extracts  I  have  given  relative  to  him  or  Falstaff.  On  the  whole,  theu,  independently 
of  the  entire  evidence  being  in  its  favour,  I  think  the  account  given  by  Dr.  James  would  be  the  most 
plausible  conjecture  we  could  form,  were  we  without  the  aid  of  that  evidence. 

The  only  objection,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  which  can  be  raised  against  the  veracity  of  Dr.  James's 

account,  is  the  slight  discrepancy  I  have  previously  mentioned.     My  own  faith  is  not  at  all  shaken 

by  this  circumstance,  because  he  was  repeating  from  memory  the  doubts  of  another,  as  he  had  heard 

them  in  conversation,  and  was  probably  more  solicitous  of  placing  the  question  in  a  position  to 

enable  him  to  defend  his  hero  Oldcastle,  than  of  giving  a  correct  version  of  what  he  considered  an 

error  in  Shakespeare.     I  cannot  think  that  he  would  have  introduced  Shakespeare  in  the  manner  in 

which  he  has,  if  he  had  not  been  pretty  certain  of  the  truth  of  the  anecdote.     Fastolf,  too,  was  an 

Oxford  man,  and  he  resents  his  supposed  degradation  under  the  title  of  Falstaff.     His  successors  were 

apparently  impressed  with  the  same  notion.     Warton  tells  us  that  the  "  magnificent  knight.  Sir  John 

I  I       Falstaff,  bequeathed  estates  to  Magdalen  College,  part  of  which  were  appropnated  to  buy  liveries  for 

I  I       some  of  the  senior  scholars;  but  the  benefactions  in  time  yielding  no  more  than  a  penny  a  week  to 

;       the  scholars  who  received  the  liveries,  they  were  called,  by  way  of  contempt,  Falstaff' s  huckram  inxenr 

I       An  anonymous  and  inedited  poet  of  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth   century,  w.hose  MS.  works 

'      were  foixnerly  in  the  possession  of  Oldys,  and  are  now  in  the  valuable  library  of  my  friend,  the  Rev 

Thomas  Corser,  complains  sadly  of  Shakespeare  for  a  similar  reason  : — 

Here  to  evince  that  scandal  has  been  thrown 

Upon  a  name  of  honour,  charactrecl 
From  a  wrong  person,  coward  and  buffoon ; 

Call  in  your  easy  faiths,  from  what  you  've  read 
To  laugh  at  Falstaffe ;  as  a  humour  fram'd 

To  grace  the  stage,  to  please  the  age,  misnam'd. 

No  longer  please  yourselves  to  injure  names  > 

Who  lived  to  honour:  if,  as  who  dare  breathe 
A  syllable  from  Harry's  choice,  the  fames, 

Conferr'd  by  princes,  may  redeem  from  death  ? 
Live  Fastolffe  then ;  wliose  trust  and  courage  once 

Merited  the  first  government  in  France. 

Henry  IV.  was  an  extremely  popular  play  from  its  first  appearance,  no  less  than  five  editions 
of  it  having  been  printed  during  the  author's  lifetime ;  and  the  only  contemporary  manuscript  of  any 
of  Shakespeare's  plays  known  to  exist  is  a  condensation  of  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.  made  into  one 
drama,  for  the  convenience  of  representjition  before  a  private  audience.  This  very  curious  relio  was 
found  in  the  archives  of  Sir  Edward  Dering,  Bart.,  by  the  Rev.  L.  B.  Larking,  and  Sir  Edward  very 
kindly  lent  it  to  me  for  several  weeks.  It  contains  veiy  few  readings  of  great  importance,  but  as  an 
j  j      unique  Shakespearian  relic  it  cannot  be  too  highly  estimated. 

{  I  Henry  V.  was  first  surreptitiously  published  in  the  year  1600,  under  the  title  of,  "  The  Chronicle 

I  History  of  Henry  the  Fift,  with  his  battell  fought  at  Agin  Court  in  France  :  togither  with  Auntient 
j  Pistoll :  as  it  hath  been  sundry  times  playd  by  the  Right  Honorable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his 
I  servants:  Loudon,  Printed  by  Thomas  Creede  for  Tho.  Milliugton  and  John  Busby."  The  author's 
name  is  not  given,  and  Mr.  CoUier  is  of  opinion  that  fill  the  early  editions  in  quarto  were  published 
entirely  without  the  author's  consent.  They  are  very  impeifect,  compared  with  the  amended  play 
in  the  foHo:  but  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Shakespeare  corrected  and  altered  it,  after  its  first 
composition.  Mr.  Collier  considers  that  it  was  first  produced  in  its  original  form  in  1599,  and  that  it 
was  enlarged  and  amended  in  the  form  in  which  it  is  now  read,  shortly  before  1605,  early  in  which 
year  it  was  performed  before  the  court  at  Whitehall. 
682 


The  first  part  of  Henry  VI.  is  generally  considered  to  be  only  partially  the  work  of  ShakespearOv 
and  I  have  previously  avowed  my  disbelief  of  the  light  attribution  of  it  to  him  as  an  entire  work.  It 
appeal's  in  the  first  folio,  but  beyond  this  circumstance,  we  can  only  judge  of  the  matter  by  internal 
evidence.  The  second  and  third  parts  are  found  in  their  primitive  form  in  an  old  play  in  two  parts, 
called,  "  The  Contention  of  the  two  famous  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster,"  entered  on  the  books  of 
the  Stationers'  Company  in  1602,  as  the  2nd  and  3rd  parts  of  Henry  VL,  which  is  a  mistake 
for  the  first  and  second  parts  of  the  "  Contention  ;"  and  we  accordingly  find  that  when  Blount  and 
•laggard,  in  1623,  inserted  a  list  of  Shakespeare's  plays  "  as  are  not  formerly  entered  to  other  men," 
they  omitted  the  first  and  second  parts  of  Henry  VL,  and  only  inserted  "  The  Thirde  Parte  of  Henry 
the  Sixt."  In  the  same  way,  vre  find  they  did  not  insert  "  King  John "  in  the  same  list,  although 
there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  any  copy  of  that  play  in  its  present  form  had  previously  been 
entered.  The  probable  inference  is,  that  the  list  was  hastily  compiled  from  the  previous  entries 
Millington,  it  appeai-s,  kept  possession  of  the  "  Whole  Contention,"  as  Pavier  aftenvards  called  it,  till 
1602.  There  seems  something  mysterious  in  the  wovAs,^'' salvo  juris  cujuscumquej'' v/lxich.  occur  in 
the  entry  above  mentioned  ;  and  it  may  be  asked  why  Pavier  kept  them  so  long  without  a 
republication,  as  they  were  not  reprinted  till  1619.  The  entry  is,  however,  important,  for  it  clearly 
shows  that,  as  early  as  1602,  the  present  title  of  "Heniy  VI."  had  superseded  the  older  one.  These 
two  plays  are,  I  believe,  the  First  Sketches  of  the  Second  and  Third  Parts  of  Henry  VI. ;  but  it  is  a 
question  with  the  critics  whether  Shakespeare  was  their  author,  or  whether  he  merely  borrowed  from 
some  older  dramatist. 

The  external  evidence  is  in  favour  of  Malone's  theory,  that  Shakespeare  was  not  the  author 
of  them.  They  appear  to  have  been,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  hands  of  Millington  till  1602,  and  they 
were  then  transferred  to  Pavier,  who  retained  them  till  1626.  Millington  and  Pavier  managed 
between  them  to  monopolize  nearly  the  whole  of  Shakespeare's  disputed  plays.  Thus  Millington 
had  the  "First  Part  of  the  Contention,"  the  "Chronicle  History,"  and  the  "True  Tragedie," 
which  he  transfeired  to  Pavier  in  1600  and  1602.  In  addition  to  these,  Pavier  also  had  "Sir  John 
Oldcastle,"  "Titus  Andronicus,"  "The  Yorkshire  Tragedy,"  "The  Puritan,"  and  "  Peiicles,"  all 
of  which  seem  to  be  suspicious  plays,  to  say  the  least  of  them.  Again  :  Millington,  who  published 
these  plays  in  1594,  1595,  and  1600,  did  not  put  the  name  of  Shakespeare  to  them,  though  it 
would  have  been  for  his  advantage  to  have  done  so.  After  the  year  1598,  none  of  the  undisputed 
plays  of  Shakespeare  were  published  without  having  his  name  conspicuously  inserted  on  the  title,  and 
only  three  were  ever  published  without  his  name,  two  in  1597,  and  one  in  1598,  although,  between 
the  years  1598  and  1655,  forty-four  quarto  editions  appeared  with  the  authorship  clearly 
announced.  In  1600,  when  Millington  published  the  two  parts  of  the  "Contention"  without 
Shakespeare's  name,  six  undisputed  plays  were  published  mth  his  name,  and  seven  disputed  plays 
without ;  but  Pavier  was  afterwards  bolder,  and  out  of  the  twenty-four  editions  of  the  disputed  plays 
published  between  the  years  1591  and  1635,  we  find  eight  with  Shakespeare's  name.  This,  however, 
was  after  1609.  The  probabihty,  therefore,  is,  that  the  first  part  of  the  "  Contention,"  and  the  "  True 
Tragedy,"  were  pubhshed  piratically,  and  altogether  without  Shakespeare's  authority,  if  he  had  any 
share  in  them.  In  1626,  Pavier  assigned  to  Edward  Biewster  and  Robert  Bird  his  right  in  the 
disputed  plays,  and  we  hear  again  of  the  two  parts  of  the  "  Contention,"  for  the  last  time,  on 
November  8th,  1630,  as  "  Yorke  and  Lancaster,"  when  they  were  assigned  to  Richard  Cotes  by  Mr. 
Bird  and  consent  of  a  full  court. 

The  first  edition  of  the  "  True  Tragedy  of  Richard  Duke  of  York,"  as  the  second  part  of  the 
"  Contention"  was  originally  called,  does  not  appear  to  have  been  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  and  it 
is  probable  that  there  is  a  secret  history  attached  to  its  publication  that  remains  to  be  unravelled. 
The  first  thing  that  strikes  us  is  its  title,  and  the  reason  why  it  was  not  published  as  the  "  Second 
Part  of  the  Contention"  till  1619.  The  title-page  affirms  it  to  contain  "the  whole  Contention." 
Could  this  have  been  done  for  the  purpose  of  deception  ?  We  may,  however,  infer  that  the  amended 
plays  appeared  after  1595,  and  before  1602,  or  it  is  probable  that  the  old  titles  would  not  ha/e  been 
retained.  Perhaps,  however,  the  same  argument  holds  with  respect  to  the  edition  of  1600,  and  t^M 
would  place  the  date  of  the  amended  plays  within  a  very  narrow  compass.  There  are  some  reasons 
s"  638 


GENERAL  INTRODUCllON  TO  THE 


for  thinking  that  the  Third  Part  of  Henry  VI. y  in  the  form  in  which  we  now  have  it,  wa^  vrriiten 
before  1598,  as,  in  one  of  the  stage  directions  in  the  firet  folio,  we  have  Gabriel,  an  actor,  lonodiiced, 
who,  according  to  Mr.  Collier,  was  killed  by  Ben  Jonson  in  the  September  of  that  year.  The  Third 
Pait  of  Henry  VI.  also  introduces  Sinklo,  another  actor,  in  a  similar  manner,  who  |>o:formed  in 
Tarlton's  play  of  the  "  Seven  Deadly  Sins,"  and  who  probably,  therefore,  did  not  «ai'vive  the  year 
1598.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  editors  of  the  first  folio  used  copies  trauscribed  when  those 
actors  performed. 

The  constant  offences  against  grammar  which  occur  in  these  early  copies  mAf  perhaps  be  another 
proof  that  they  were  not  published  by  authority,  and,  indeed,  very  little  doubt  can  be  entertained 
of  the  fact  that  Pavier's  copies  of  the  older  plays  were  piratically  published,  and  Shakespeare's 
name  was  for  the  first  time  appended  to  them  in  1619,  and  not  in  16C0,  probably  because  the  poet 
was  not  alive  to  protect  his  interests,  and  in  the  latter  case  because  he  did  not  acknowledge  them 
for  his  own. 

I  will  now  place  before  the  reader  certain  evidences  before  uauoticed,  which  lead  me  to  think 
that  neither  Malone,  nor  Knight,  nor  Collier,  are  exactly  right  in  the  results  to  which  they  have  arrived 
concerning  the  authorship  of  the  Second  and  Third  Parts  of  Henry  VI. 

In  a  literary  point  of  view,  the  first  edition  of  the  "  Firrt  Part  of  the  Contention "  is  far  more 
valuable  than  the  first  edition  of  the  "  Ti-ue  Tragedy ;"  and  considering  that  both  are  in  the  same 
library,  it  seems  rather  strange  that  Mr.  Knight  should  havA  collated  the  Second  Part,  and  left  the 
more  valuable  copy.  Perhaps,  however,  this  remark  is  not  necessary ;  nor  should  I  have  alluded 
to  the  circumstance,  had  not  Mr.  Knight  written  so  extensively  concerning  these  plays,  that  a 
reasonable  doubt  might  be  raised  as  to  whei-e  new  evidences,  properly  so  called,  could  exist.  To 
proceed.  In  the  two  first  editions  of  "  The  First  Part  of  the  Contention,"  1694  and  1600,  act  i., 
scene  2,  we  read  : — 

This  night  when  I  was  laid  in  bed,  I  dreampt  that 
This,  my  staff,  mine  office-badge  in  court, 
Was  broke  in  two,  and  on  the  ends  were  plac'd 
The  heads  of  the  Cardinal  of  Winchester, 
And  WUliam  de  la  Poole,  first  duke  of  Suffolk. 

This  speech,  in  the  edition  of  1619,  the  only  one  used  by  Mr.  Knight,  stands  thus.: — 

This  night,  when  I  was  laid  in  bed,  I  dreamt 
That  this  my  staff,  mine  office-badge  in  court. 
Was  broke  in  twain ;  by  whom,  I  cannot  guess  : 
But,  as  I  think,  hy  tlie  carditial.     What  it  bodes 
God  knotvs  ;  and  on  the  ends  were  plac'd 
The  heads  of  Edmund  duke  of  Somerset, 
And  William  de  la  Poole,  first  duke  of  Suffolk. 

Now  let  the  reader  carefully  compare  these  different  texts  with  the  passage  as  corrected  in  the 
amended  play : — 

Methought  this  staff,  mine  office-badge  in  conrt. 

Was  broke  in  twain ;  by  whom  1  have  forgot, 

But  as  I  think,  it  was  by  the  cardinal ; 

And  on  the  pieces  of  the  broken  wand, 

Were  plac'd  the  heads  of  Edmund  duke  of  Somerset, 

And  William  de  la  Poole,  first  duke  of  Suffolk. 

This  was  my  dream  :  what  it  doth  bode,  God  knows. 

The  words  in  italics  in  .the  second  quotation  are  those  which  are  common  to  the  editions  of  1619 
»nd  1623,  but  are  not  found  in  the  earlier  impressions  of  1594  and  1600. 

We  have  thus  an  intermediate  composition  between  the  edition  of  1594  and  the  amended  plav.    It 
084 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


will  be  at  once  seem,  that'  these  differences  cannot  be  the  result  of  emendation,  in  the  way  that  we 
account  for  the  differences  of  the  second  folio.  I  will  produce  another  and  a  stronger  instance.  In 
act  i.,  sc.  2,  the  edition  of  1594  has  these  two  lines, 

Bat  ere  it  be  long,  I  '11  go  before  them  all, 
Despite  of  all  that  seek  to  cross  me  thus. 

Instead  of  these  two  lines,  we  have  a  different  speech,  an  elaboration  of  the  other  two  :— 

I  '11  come  after  you,  for  I  cannot  go  before, 
As  long  as  Gloster  hears  this  base  and  humble  mind : 
W«*^ /a  «w«,  and  Protector,  as  he  is, 
I  'd  reach  to  the  crown,  or  make  some  hop  TieacUet 
And  being  but  a  woman,  1  HI  not  (be)  behind 
For  playing  of  my  part,  in  spite  of  all 
That  seek  to  cross  me  thus. 

Again,  compare  these  versions  with  the  amended  play  : — 

Follow  I  must:  I  cannot  go  before 
While  Gloster  bears  this  base  and  humble  mind 
Were  I  a  man,  a  duke,  and  next  of  blood, 
,  I  would  remove  these  tedious  stumbling  blocks. 

And  smooth  my  way  upon  their  headless  necks : 
And,  being  a  woman,  I  -will  not  be  slack 
To  play  my  part  in  fortune's  pageant. 

Here  perhaps  is  a  still  stronger  evidence  of  an  intermediate  composition,  and  others  of  like  impor- 
tance may  be  seen  from  the  notes.  But  more  than  this,  the  genealogy  in  act  ii.,  sc.  2,  in  the  edition 
of  1594,  is  entirely  different  from  that  given  in  the  edition  of  1619,  and  this  latter  veiy  nearly 
corresponds  with  the  amended  play.  It  seems  from  these  instances,  that  it  will  be  a  difficult  matter  to 
ascertain  what  really  belongs  to  the  first  original  play.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  what  may  be  termed  the  amended  play  in  the  two  parts  of  the  "  Contention,"  and,  although 
the  evidence  to  my  mind  is  so  strong  that  Shakespeare  was  not  the  author  of  the  whole  of  these  plays, 
yet  it  seems  little  less  than  absurd  to  form  an  arithmetical  computation  of  what  was  written  by  Shake- 
speare, and  what  was  the  work  of  the  author  of  the  original  dramas. 

There  are  so  many  passages  m  the  two  parts  of  the  Contention  that  seem  almost  beyond  the 
power  of  any  of  Shakespeare's  predecessors  or  contemporaries,  perhaps  even  not  excepting  Marlowe, 
that  as  one  method  of  explaining  away  the  difficulties  which  attend  a  belief  in  Malone's  theory,  my 
conjecture  that  when  these  plays  were  printed  in  1594  and  1595,  they  included  the  first  additions  which 
Shakespeare  made  to  the  originals,  does  not  seem  impossible,  borne  out  as  it  is  by  an  examination  of  the 
early  editions.  If  I  am  so  far  correct,  we  have  yet  to  discover  the  originals  of  the  two  parts  of  the 
"  Contention,"  as  well  as  that  of  1  Henry  VI. 

The  well  known  passage  in  Greene's  "  Groat's-worth  of  Wit"  proves  that  Shakespeare  was  the 
author  of  the  line — 

0 1  tiger's  heart,  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide, 

before  September  3rd,  1592,  and  the  angry  allusion  to  the  "  upstart  crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers," 
may  be  best  explained  by  supposing  that  Shakespeare  had  then  superseded  the  older  play,  in  which 
perhaps  Greene  may  have  had  some  very  small  share.  The  attempt  to  generalize  this  passage  fails, 
for  Greene  is  speaking  of  Shakespeare  as  a  writer,  not  as  an  actor,  a  point  which  Mr.  Knight  does  not 
sufficiently  consider.  But  that  Greene  "  parodies  a  line  of  his  own,"  as  the  other  critics  tell  us,  is 
assuming  a  power  in  Greene  of  penning  the  speech  in  which  that  line  occurs ;  and  it  is  only  neoas- 
sary  to  compare  that  speech  with  others  in  Greene's  acknowledged  plays,  to  be  convinced  that  he  waa 
uot  equal  to  anything  of  the  kind. 

686 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE 


Wlien  Greene  calls  our  great  dramatist  "in  his  own  conceit  the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country," 
it  is  scarcely  possible  that  he  could  allude  to  Shakespeare's  power  of  dramatic  arrangement ;  yet  the 
words  imply  something  of  the  kind,  and  we  may  wish  to  believe  they  really  do.  The  notice  just 
quoted  is  the  earliest  introduction  of  Shakespeare  in  the  printed  literature  of  this  country,  and  so 
valuable  an  authority  is  it,  that  it  is  unfortunate  any  dispute  or  doubt  should  arise  relative  to  its 
meaning.  That  the  address  in  which  it  is  inserted  excited  much  attention  at  the  time,  is  told  by  more 
than  one  authority ;  and  it  probably  proved  a  source  of  considerable  vexation  to  Shakespeare  himself, 
for  shortly  after  its  publication  we  find  Chettle,  who  edited  Greene's  tract,  apologizing  for  the  insertion 
of  the  oflensive  passage.  ISTjish  also  calls  it  "  a  scald,  trivial,  lying  pamphlet,"  but  there  is  no 
reason  for  supposing  that  the  last  epithet  was  applied  to  the  part  now  under  consideration.  Chettle  is 
enthusiastic.  We  may  believe  that  he  became  acquainted  with  Shakespeare  after  the  publication  of 
Greene's  work,  and  before  the  appearance  of  "  Kind-Hart's  Dreame."  He  tells  us  that  Shakespeare 
was  "  excellent  in  the  quality  he  professes,"  that  is,  as  an  actor ;  and  had,  moreover,  a  "  facetious  grace 
in  writing  that  approves  his  art."  This  was  in  November  or  December,  1592.  Shakespeare  probably 
had  written  part  of  the  "  True  Tragedy,"  before  that  time. 

There  is  another  passage  in  "  Kind-Hart's  Dreame,"  which  seems  rather  at  variance  with  the 
one  just  quoted.  Chettle,  speaking  of  Greene,  says,  "  of  whom,  however  some  suppose  themselves  in- 
jai-ed,  I  have  learned  to  speak,  considering  he  is  dead,  nil  nisi  necessarium.  He  was  of  singular  plea- 
suie,  the  very  supporter^  and,  to  no  mar^s  disgrace  he  this  intended,  the  only  comedian  of  a  vulgar  writer 
in  this  country."  Chettle  here  seems  to  recollect  the  offence  that  the  "  address"  had  given ;  he  ex- 
claims to  "  no  man's  disgrace  be  this  intended,"  he  was  not  wronging  Shakespeare  in  calling  Greene  "  the 
only  comedian  of  a  vulgar  writer  in  this  country."  Chettle  professes  to  say  nothing  more  of  Greene 
than  is  requisite ;  this  testimony  to  his  merits  is  given,  notwithstanding  his  alleged  friendliness  to 
Shakespeare.  He  probably  alludes  to  Shakespeare,  when  he  says,  "however  some  suppose  themselves 
injured."  Mr.  Collier  thinks  Chettle  implies  that  Shakespeare  had  acquired  no  reputation  as  an 
original  dramatic  poet  in  1592  :  and  it  certainly  goes  far  to  prove  that  his  comic  pieces  had  not  then 
appeared,  or,  if  they  had,  had  obtained  little  applause.  Our  business  is  now  with  the  histories ;  and 
the  "First  Part  of  the  Contention,"  and  the  "True  Tragedy,"  may  have  been  ri/acimenti  by  Shake- 
speare as  early  as  1592, 

When  Greene  parodied  the  lines  in  "  The  True  Tragedy,"  and  alluded  to  the  crow  "  beautified  with 
our  feathers,"  it  is  probable  he  meant  to  insinuate  that  he  himself  had  some  share  in  the  composi- 
tion of  the  play,  which,  in  one  state  of  its  reconstruction  or  amendment  by  Shakespeare,  fell  under  his 
satire.  This  probability  is  considerably  strengthened  by  the  following  passage  in  "Greene's  FuneraUs" 
by  R.'B.,  gent.,  4to.,  Lond.  1594,  a  rare  tract  of  twelve  leaves,  preserved  in  the  Bodleian  Hbrary: 


Greene  is  the  pleasing  obiect  of  an  eie ; 

Greene  pleasde  the  eies  of  all  that  lookt  vppon  him ; 
Greene  is  the  ground  of  euerie  Painters  die ; 

Greene  gaue  the  ground  to  all  that  wrote  vpon  him: 
Nay  more,  the  men  tliat  so  eclipst  his  fame, 
Purloynde  his  Plumes,  can  they  deny  the  same  ? 


This  is  "  Sonnet  IX,"  in  this  rare  little  volume,  which  contains  the  term  "  sugred  sonnets,"  afterward.^ 
appropriated  by  Meres  to  Shakespeare.  R,  B.,  whoever  he  was,  may  write  somewhat  in  partisanship, 
but  how  Nash's  indignant  rejection  of  the  authorship  of  the  other  tract  can  be  held  a  sufficient  reply  to 
this  plain  statement,  seems  mysterious.  Yet  so  Mr.  Knight  would  tell  us,  and  adds  that  no  "  great 
author  appeared  in  the  world  who  was  not  reputed  in  the  outset  of  his  career  to  be  a  plagiarist."  Was 
Harriot  held  as  plagiarist,  when  he  promulgated  his  original  theories?  Was  not  his  adoption  of 
Vieta's  notions  discovered  afterwards?  The  cases  are  nearly  parallel,  though  there  was  no  Vieta  alive 
to  claim  the  groundwork.  We  may  not  care  to  know  who  laid  the  foundation,  but  surely  Greene's 
vrords  are  not  to  be  altogether  divested  of  any  intelligible  meaning. 

The  "  True  Tragedy,"  as  originally  composed,  was,  as  wo  learn  from  the  title  page,  i)luyed  by  the 
Kari  of  Pembrooke's  servants,  for  whom  Greene  was  in  the  habit  of  writing.     None  of  Shakespeare's 

AS6 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


undisputed  plays  were  played  by  this  company.  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  an  earlier  drama,  also  has  this 
external  evidence  against  its  authenticity.  Mr.  Collier,  indeed,  tells  us  that  before  1592,  "a  popular 
play  written  for  one  company,  and  perhaps  acted  by  that  company  as  it  was  written,  might  be 
surreptitiously  obtained  by  another,  having  been  at  best  taken  down  from  the  mouths  of  the  original 
performers ;  from  the  second  company  it  might  be  procured  by  a  third,  and,  after  a  succession  of 
changes,  corniptions,  and  omissions,  it  might  find  its  way  at  last  to  the  press."  This,  as  Mr.  Knight 
thinks,  entirely  overthrows  Malone's  argument  on  the  point ;  but  the  "  True  Tragedy"  was  not  printed 
till  1595,  and,  according  to  Mr.  Collier,  this  system  probably  concluded  two  years  previously.  Besides, 
the  title-page  would  probably  exhibit  the  name  of  the  oiiginal  company.  If  Malone  is  not  right,  it  is 
very  singular  that  the  suspicious  accounts  should  only  appear  on  the  titles  of  two  suspicious  dramas. 
Passing  over  Malone's  conclusions  from  inaccuracies  and  anachronisms,  which  can  hardly  be  considered 
safe  guides,  when  we  reflect  how  numerous  they  are  throughout  Shakespeare's  plays,  there  is  yet  one 
other  circumstance  worthy  of  notice,  that  indirectly  associates  the  name  of  Greene  with  the  older 
dramas.  In  "  The  First  Part  of  the  Contention,"  mention  is  made  of  "  Abradas,  the  great  Macedonian 
pirateP  Who  Abradas  was,  does  not  any  where  appear,  and  the  only  other  mention  of  him  that  has 
been  discovered  is  in  "Penelope's  Web,"  4to.,  Lond.,  1588,  a  tract  written  by  Greene.  "  I  remember, 
Ismena,  that  Epicurus  measured  every  man's  dyet  by  his  own  principles,  and  Abradas,  the  great  Mace- 
donian pirate,  thought  every  one  had  a  letter  of  mart  that  bare  sayles  in  the  ocean."  These  coin- 
cidences are  perhaps  more  curious  than  important,  but  still  appear  worth  notice.  It  may  likewise  be 
mentioned,  as  a  confirmatory  circumstance,  that  Nash,  in  his  "  Apologie,"  1593,  mentions  Greene 
•'  being  chiefe  agent  for  the  companie,  for  hee  writ  more  than  foure  other,  how  well  I  will  not  say." 
If,  therefore,  Greene  was  so  intimately  connected  with  the  earl  of  Pembrook's  servants,  and  Shake- 
speare not  at  all,  the  external  evidence,  as  far  as  this  goes,  is  strongly  in  favour  of  Greene's  having  had 
some  share  in  the  composition  of  the  "  True  Tragedy,"  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  "  The  First  Part  of 
the  Contention." 

I  have  followed  Mr.  Hunter  in  saying  that  the  allusion  to  Shakespeare  in  the  "  Groatsworth  of 
Wit,"  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  September  20,  1592,  is  the  earliest  production  of  our  great  dramatic 
poet  in  the  printed  literature  of  this  country.  If,  however,  the  opinion  of  Chalmers  may  be  relied  on, 
Gabriel  Harvey,  in  his  "  Four  Letters  especially  touching  Robert  Greene,  and  other  parties  by  him 
abused,"  1592,  alludes  to  Shakespeare  in  the  third  letter,  dated  September  9th,  1592,  wherein  he 
says  :— "  I  speak  generally  to  every  spiinging  wit,  but  more  especially  to  a  few  :  and,  at  this  instant, 
singularly,  to  one,  whom  I  salute  with  a  hundred  blessings."  These  notices  of  Shakespeare  are,  how- 
ever, digressions  in  this  place,  even  if  they  prove  that  Shakespeare  was  not  popularly  known  as  a 
dramatic  writer  before  1592.  Chettle's  evidence  in  the  same  year  is  almost  conclusive  with  respect  to 
the  histrionic  powers  of  Shakespeare ;  and  it  would  be  a  curious  addition  to  our  poet's  histoiy  to  ascer- 
tain whether  he  performed  in  the  two  latter  parts  of  Henry  VI,  after  they  had  been  altered  and 
amended.  There  is  a  well-known  epigram  by  Davies,  in  his  "  Scourge  of  Folly,"  1611,  p.  76,  that  has 
some  theatrical  anecdote  connected  with  it,  now  perhaps  for  ever  lost,  but  which  implies  that  Rowe 
was  not  exactly  right  when  he  stated  that  "  the  top  of  his  performance  was  the  ghost  of  Hamlet:'' 
Another  evidence  may  be  adduced  from  Davies'  "  Humours  Heav'n  on  Earth,"  8vo.,  Lond..  1609, 
p.  208,  which  has  not  been  yet  quoted  : — 

Some  followed  her  (Fortune)  by  acting  all  men's  parts, 

These  on  a  stage  she  rais'd,  in  scorn  to  fall. 
And  made  them  mirrors  by  their  acting  arts, 

Wherein  men  saw  their  faults,  though  ne'er  so  small : 
Yet  some  she  guerdon'd  not  to  their  deserts  ; 

But  othersome  were  but  ill-action  all, 
Who,  while  they  acted  ill,  ill  stay'd  behind. 

By  custom  of  their  manners,  in  their  minds. 

This  alludes  to  Shakespeare  and  Burbage,  as  appears  irom  the  marginal  note ;  but  the  inference  to  be 
drawn  from  it  is  in  favour  of  Shakspeare's  capabilities  as  an  actor.  Davies  is  often  rather  unintel- 
ligible, and  the  allusion — 

6>'» 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE 


Some  say,  good  Will,  which  I,  in  sport,  do  sing, 

Hadst  thou  not  play'd  some  kingly  parts  in  sport, 
Thou  hadst  been  a  companion  for  a  king, 

And  been  a  king  among  the  meaner  sort — 

remains   to   be  unravelled.      It   clearly  alludes  to  some   circumstance  which  ^ook  place  after  the 
accession  of  James  L  * 

This  digression  is  not  without  its  use,  because  it  shows  that  as  we  have  good  grounds  for  believing 
Chettle's  testimony  to  Shakespeare's  histrionic  merits,  we  can  the  more  readily  give  credence  to  his 
assertion  that  our  dramatist  possessed  a  "  facetious  grace  in  writing,  that  approves  his  art."  If  the 
other  passage  just  quoted,  which  alludes  to  Greene,  proves  that  Shakespeare  was  not  known  as  a  comic 
writer  as  early  as  1591,  it  by  no  means  sufficiently  outweighs  Chettle's  first  testimony  to  make 
us  doubt  that  Shakespeare  had  then  largely  contributed  to  the  two  parts  of  the  "  Contention."  Mr. 
Knight  tells  us  repeatedly,  that  if  Malone's  theory  be  adopted,  Shakespeare  was  the  most  unblushing 
plagiarist  that  ever  put  pen  to  paper.  Why  so  ?  Did  Shakespeare  adopt  the  labours  of  others  as  his 
own  ?  If  he  had  done  so,  why  was  his  name  effaced  from  the  title-page  of  "  Sir  John  Oldcastle  ?"  and 
why  was  it  not  inserted  on  the  early  editions  of  the  present  plays  ?  He  would  have  been  essentially  a 
dishonest  plagiarist,  says  Mr.  Knight.  But  it  was  the  common  custom  of  the  time  for  dramatists  to  be 
engaged  to  remodel  and  amplify  the  productions  of  others.  A  reference  to  Henslowe's  Diary  will  at 
once  establish  this  fact.  In  1601,  Decker  was  paid  thirty  shillings  "  for  altering  of  Fayton,"  and,  in 
the  following  year,  we  find  Ben  Jonson  paid  £10  on  account,  "  in  earnest  of  a  boocke  called  Richard 
Crookeback,  and  for  new  adycions  for  Jeronimo."  According  to  Mr.  Knight's  theory,  Decker,  Jonson, 
and  every  unfortunate  play\vright  who  complied  with  the  custom  of  the  time,  were  "  unblushing 
plagiarists."  The  great  probability  is,  that  the  company  for  which  Shakespeare  wrote  had  become 
proprietors  of  the  older  plays,  and  that  he  made  alterations,  and  added  to  them  when  necessar}-.  There 
was  no  plagiarism  in  the  case  ;  and  perhaps  some  day  it  will  be  discovered  that  little  of  the  original 
dramas  now  remains  in  the  Second  and  Third  Parts  of  Henry  VI. 

From  Henslowe's  Diary  it  appears  that  a  play  called  Henry  VI.  was  acted  thirteen  times  in 
the  spring  of  ]  592,  by  Lord  Strange's  players,  who,  be  it  remembered,  never  performed  any  of  Shake- 
speare's plays.  This  is  conjectured,  with  great  probability,  to  be  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.  in  some 
«tate  or  other  of  its  composition,  and  the  play  whose  power  "  embalmed"  the  bones  of  "  brave  Talbot" 
with  the  teare  of  ten  thousand  spectators.  The  death  scene  of  Talbot  is,  perhaps,  the  most  powerfully 
constructed  part  of  the  play ;  our  national  sympathies  have  been  awakened  in  his  favour,  and  we  pity 
hiB  woeful  end ;  but  Nash  gives  like  praise  to  the  contemptible  ''  Famous  Victories."  Mr.  Knight 
places  great  reliance  on  the  unity  of  action  in  the  First  Part  of  the  "  Contention"  and  the  First  Part  of 
Henry  VI.,  to  prove  that  they  were  both  written  by  one  and  the  same  person  ;  but  surely  these  two 
plays  have  neither  unity  of  characterisation,  nor  unity  of  style ;  and  the  want  of  these  outweighs  the 
unity  of  action.  That  there  is  considerable  unity  of  action,  I  admit.  In  some  cases,  nearly  the  same 
expressions  occur.     Thus  in  1  Henry  VI.,  act  iv.,  so.  1,  King  Henry  says : — 

Cousin  of  York,  we  institute  your  ^race 
To  be  our  regent  in  these  parts  of  France. 

And  in  the  First  Part  of  the  "  Contention,"  act  i.,  sc.  1,  he  says  : — 

Cousin  of  York,  we  here  discharge  your  grace 
From  being  regent  in  these  parts  of  France. 

But  I  suspect  these  coincidences,  and  the  evidences  of  the  unity  of  action,  as  well  as  those  scenes  which 
a  cursory  reader  might  suppose  to  have  been  written  for  the  purpose  of  continuation,  may  be  attributed 
to  the  writer  having  adopted  his  incidents  out  of  the  old  chronicles,  where  such  matters  are  placed  in 
not  very  strict  chronological  arrangement.  Thus,  in  Richard  III,  the  incident  of  the  king  sending  the 
Bishop  of  Ely  for  strawberries  is  isolated,  adopted  in  order  with  the  other  scenes  from  the  chruniclei'S, 
probably  Holinshed,  and  useless  for  the  purposes  of  continuation.  With  a  discussion  mi  the  supposed 
ens 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


iinitv  of  style  I  will  not  occupy  these  pages.  Opinion  in  this  matter  is  sufficient,  for  the  plays  are 
accessible.  Mr.  Hallam  thinks  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.  might  have  been  written  by  Greene,  and 
the  very  opening  of  the  play  is  in  the  bombastic  style  of  the  older  dramatists.  Again,  with  respect  to 
the  characterization,  is  the  Margaret  of/.  Henry  VI.  the  Margaret  of  the  First  Part  of  the  "  Contention  ?" 
Perhaps  her  character  is  not  sufficiently  developed  in  the  first  of  these  to  enable  us  to  judge ;  but,  in 
regard  to  the  characters  that  are  common  to  both,  we  may  safely  decide  that  not  one  characteristic  of 
importance  is  to  be  found  in  /.  Henry  VI.  not  immediately  deiived  from  the  chroniclers.  Are  we  to 
suppose  that  Suffolk's  instantaneous  love  was  corresponded  to  by  Margaret,  or  was  she  only  haughty 
and  not  passionate  when  she  quietly  answers  Sufiblk  in  the  speech  in  which  she  is  introduced  ?  I  do 
not  mean  to  assert  that  there  is  any  inconsistency  in  her  being  represented  merely  haughty  in  one  play, 
and  passionate  in  the  other,  for  different  circumstances  would  render  this  veiy  possible ;  but  it  is  not 
easy  to  infer  the  strict  unity  of  characterization  that  is  attempted  to  be  established. 

K  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.  were  originally  written  by  Shakespeare,  and  with  all  these  scenes 
for  the  purposes  of  continuation,  as  Mr.  Knight  would  have  us  believe,  how  does  that  writer  account 
for  the  appearance  of  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  VI.  under  the  title  of  the  First  Part  of  the  "  Con- 
tention ?"  This  is  a  point  to  which  no  attention  has  been  given.  Two  editions  of  the  First  Part 
of  the  "Contention"  were  published  in  1600  under  the  old  title,  but  we  find  that  in  1602,  their  later 
appellations  as  parts  of  Henry  VI.  had  been  given  them.  It  seems  reasonable  to  infer  that,  when 
Shakespeare  remodelled  the  old  plays,  and  formed  the  two  pails  of  the  "  Contention,"  he  had  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  old  play  of  "  Henry  VI."  mentioned  by  Henslowe,  and  had  intended  the  play 
now  called  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  VI.  to  be  the  first  of  his  own  series.  Afterwards,  he  might 
have  been  employed  to  make  "new  adycyons"  to  the  old  play  of  "  Henry  VI.,"  and  then  the  three 
plays  may  have  been  amalgamated  into  a  series,  and  the  old  play  rendered  uniform  by  scenes  written 
for  continuations  previously  made.  Take  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.  away,  and  the  concluding 
chorus  to  Henry  V.  remains  equally  intelligible.  The  "  True  Tragedy "  may  also  have  been  called 
"  Edward  IV.,"  and  so  more  naturally  the  series  would  have  continued  with  Richxtrd  III.  In  vain 
bavo  I  looked  for  any  identity  of  manner  in  the  scene  between  Suffolk  and  Margaret  in  the  First  Part 
of  Henry  VI.  and  the  similar  scene  in  the  First  Part  of  the  "  Contention."  But  so  much  stress  has 
b^en  laid  on  this  point,  that  I  beg  the  reader  will  here  carefully  compare  them  together. 


Firtt  Part  of  the  Contention,  Act  Hi.  Sc.  2. 

Queen.  Sweet  Suffolk,  hie  thee  hence  to  France, 
For  if  the  king  do  come,  thou  sure  must  die. 

Svf.  And  if  I  go  I  cannot  live :  but  here  to  die, 
What  were  it  else. 

But  like  a  pleasant  slumber  in  thy  lap  ? 
Hero  could  I  breathe  my  soul  into  the  air. 
As  mild  and  gentle  as  the  new-born  babe. 
That  dies  with  mother's  dug  between  his  lips. 
Where  from  thy  sight  I  should  be  raging  mad, 
And  call  for  thee  to  close  mine  eyes, 
Or  with  thy  lips  to  stop  my  dying  soul, 
That  I  miglit  breathe  it  so  into  thy  body, 
And  then  it  liv'd  in  sweet  Elysium. 
By  thee  to  die,  were  torment  more  than  death. 
Oh,  let  me  stay,  befal  what  may  befal. 

Queen.  Oh  might'st  thou  stay  with  safety  of  thy  life, 
Then  should'st  thou  stay ;  but  heavens  deny  it, 
And  therefore  go,  but  hope  ere  long  to  be  repeal'd. 

Svf.  I  go. 

Queen.  And  take  my  heart  with  thee.       [She  kisses  him. 

Suf.  A  jewel  lock'd  into  the  wofull'st  cask, 
That  ever  yet  contain'd  a  thing  of  worth. 
Thus,  like  a  splitted  bark,  so  sundo-  we; 
This  way  fall  I  to  deatli.  \Eidt  Suffolk. 


Queen.  This  way  for  roe. 


[Beit  QxTEBN 


First  Part  of  Henry  VI.,  Act  v.  Sc.  8. 

Suf.  Be  what  tliou  wilt,  thou  art  my  prisoner. 

[G<KKS  onTier. 

0  fairest  beauty,  do  not  fear,  nor  fly ; 

For  I  will  touch  thee  but  with  reverent  hands. 

1  kiss  these  fingers  [hissing  her  hand]  for  eternal  peace, 
And  lay  them  gently  on  thy  tender  side. 

Who  art  thou  ?  say,  that  I  may  honour  thee. 

Mar.  Margaret  my  name,  and  daughter  to  a  king, 
The  king  of  Naples ;  whosoe'er  thou  art. 

Suf.  An  earl  I  am,  and  Suffolk  am  I  call'd. 
Be  not  offended,  nature's  miracle. 
Thou  art  allotted  to  be  ta'en  by  me : 
So  doth  the  swan  her  downy  cygnets  save. 
Keeping  them  prisoner  underneath  her  wings. 
Yet  if  this  servile  usage  cnce  offeiid. 
Go,  and  be  free  again,  as  Suffolk's  friend. 

[SJie  tvrns  a/way  at  p<wi{/ 
0,  stay  I — I  have  no  power  to  let  her  pass ; 
My  hand  would  free  her,  but  my  heart  says, — no. 
As  plays  the  sun  upon  the  glassy  streams. 
Twinkling  another  counterfeited  beam. 
So  seems  this  gorgeous  beauty  to  mine  eyes. 

680 


!  ! 


Mr.  Dyce  could  not  have  been  far  wrong,  when  he  excluded  the  first  of  these  plays  from  his 
chronology,  as  "  exhibiting  no  traces  of  Shakespeare's  peculiar  style,  and  being  altogether  in  the 
manner  of  an  older  school."  I 

This  judicious  writer  thinks  that  it  may  be  attributed  either  to  Marlowe  or  Kyd,  and  we  are  i 
occasionally  reminded  of  the  former  author.  Henslowe's  "  Diary"  lets  us  a  good  deal  into  the  prison-  | 
house  secrets  of  the  relative  position  between  author  and  manager  in  those  days ;  we  there  find  that  i 
sometimes  four  writere  were  occasionally  employed  on  one  play  ;  and  there  seems  to  be  strong  internal  I 
evidence  that  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.  was  not  wholly  the  work  of  one  hand.  | 

Capell,  stmck  with  the  power  of  the  death-scene  in  Henrrj  VI.,  long  since  decided  that  it  was      j 
unquestionably  the  work  of  Shakespeare.     It  is,  indeed,  a  composition  in  Shakespeare's  peculiar  style ; 
and  it  occurs  in  the  "  True  Tragedy,"  with  only  a  few  verbal  alterations,  and  the  omission  of  five 
unimportant  lines  at  the  commencement.     In  the  same  way,  the  speech  beginning- — 

I  will  go  clad  my  body  in  gay  ornaments, 

is  equal,  if  not  superior,  in  smoothness  and  power,  to  a  like  speech  in  Richard  III.  How  can  Mr. 
Collier  find  it  in  his  heart  to  deprive  Shakespeare  of  these  ?  There  is  nothing  equal  to  them  in  the 
First  Part  of  Henry  F/.,  and  little  superior  to  them  in  the  other  historical  plays.  It  is,  liowever, 
worthy  of  remark,  that  Meres  in  1598  does  not  mention  either  "Henry  VI."  or  the  "Contention," 
which  would  seem  to  show  that  they  were  not  highly  estimated  even  in  Shakespeare's  own  time. 

Gildon  tells  us  of  a  tradition,  that  Shakespeare,  in  a  conversation  with  Ben  Jonson,  said,  that, 
"finding  the  nation  generally  very  ignorant  of  history,  he  wrote  plays  in  order  to  instruct  the  people 
in  that  particular."  This  is  absurd.  "Plays,"  says  Hey  wood  in  1612,  "have  made  the  ignorant 
more  appiehensive,  taught  the  unlearned  the  knowledge  of  many  famous  histories,  instructed  such  as 
cannot  read  in  the  discovery  of  all  our  English  chronicles ;  and  what  man  have  you  now  of  that  weak 
capacity,  that  cannot  discourse  of  any  notable  thing  recorded  even  from  William  the  Conqueror,  nay, 
from  the  landing  of  Brute,  until  this  day  ?"  Henslowe  mentions  a  play  on  the  subject  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  a  complete  series  once  existed,  even  up  to 
Henry  VIIL,  and  perhaps  even  later.  There  was  little  authentic  history  in  those  days,  and  the 
researches  of  Cotton  and  Hayward  were  not  popularly  known.  Most  were  content  to  take  the 
"  depraved  lies"  of  the  playwrights  for  truth,  and,  like  the  simpleton  mentioned  by  Ben  Jonson.  prefer 
them  to  the  sage  chroniclers : — 

No,  I  confess  I  have  it  from  the  play-books, 
And  think  they  are  more  authentic. 

It  is  ridiculous  to  talk  of  Shakespeare  having  invented  an  historical  drama,  that  had  been  gradually 
growing  towards  the  perfection  it  reached  in  his  hands  from  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
Let,  therefore,  Gildon's  tradition  be  distributed  with  the  other  myths  that  the  commencement  of  the 
seventeenth  century  interwove  with  the  little  that  was  then  known  of  Shakespeare's  authentic 
histoiy. 

There  are  other  opinions  that  require  notice  in  this  place.  It  has  been  conjectured  that  the 
"  First  Part  of  the  Contention"  and  the  "  Trae  Tragedy"  were  not  written  by  the  same  sort  of 
person,  because  the  account  of  Clifford's  death  at  the  conclusioa  of  the  former  play  varies  with  that 
given  of  the  same  occurrence  at  the  commencement  of  the  other.  On  the  same  principle  we  might 
conclude  that  the  Second  Parts  of  Henry  IV.  and  Henry  VI.  are  not  by  the  same  hand,  because  the 
stoiy  of  Althea  is  erroneously  told  in  the  first  of  these  plays,  and  rightly  in  the  second.  It  is  diflScult 
to  account  for  these  inconsistencies,  and  it  seems  paradoxical  that  Shakespeare  should  at  one  time 
remember  a  well-known  classical  story,  and  forget  it  at  another ;  but  it  is  undoubtedly  dangerous  to 
build  theories  on  such  circumstances. 

Dr.  Johnson,  who  often  speaks  at  random  in  these  matters,  asserts  that  the  Second  and  Third 
Parts  of  Henry  VI.  were  not  written  without  a  dependance  on  the  first  Malone  has  answered  hira 
wtisfactorily  by  saying,  "  the  old  play  of  Henry  VI.  had  been  exhibited  before  these  were  written  in 
640 


HISTORICAL  PLAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE. 


any  form ;"  but  it  does  uot  follow  from  tliis  concession,  either  that  the  "  Contention"  was  written  by 
the  author  of  the  former  play,  or  that  Shakespeare  was  the  author  of  these  two  pieces,  as  originally  com- 
posed. This  is  exactly  the  point  to  which  I  would  draw  the  reader's  attention.  I  will  leave  the 
unity  of  action  out  of  the  question,  because  we  are  not  dealing  with  works  of  imagination,  and  this  can 
be  accounted  for,  as  I  have  previously  contended,  in  the  sources  from  which  the  incidents  are  derived. 
Had  there  been  two  Parts  to  the  Tempest^  and  the  same  kind  of  unity  of  action,  and  similar  instances 
of  scenes  written  for  the  purposes  of  continuation,  the  argument  would  hold  in  that  case,  unless  it 
could  be  shown  that  these  were  also  to  be  found  in  the  original  romance  or  drama  upon  which  it  was 
founded.  Here  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  believe  that,  with  the  present  evidence,  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  ascertain  the  exact  portions  of  the  two  Parts  of  the  "  Contention,"  which  were  not  written  by 
Shakespeare,  and  belong  to  the  older  drama.     There  is  nothing  Shakespearian  in  this : — ■ 

These  gifts  ere  long  will  make  me  mighty  ricli. 

The  duchess  slic  thinks  now  that  all  is  well, 

But  I  have  gold  comes  from  another  place, 

From  one  that  hired  me  to  sot  her  on, 

To  plot  these  treasons  gainst  the  king  and  peers ; 

And  that  is  the  mighty  duke  of  Suftblk. 

For  he  it  is,  but  I  must  not  say  so, 

That  by  my  means  must  work  the  duchess'  fall. 

Who  now  by  conjuration  thinks  to  rise. 

rhis  is  one  of  the  most  favourable  specimens  of  the  rejections.  Mr.  Knight  would  have  us  be'ieve 
jiiat  Shakespeare  wrote  the  following  speech,  and  Dut  it  into  Ld;  laouth  of  Richard,  after  he  ha/* 
i'.ain  Somerset: — 

"'>  lie  thou  thero,  and  tumble  in  thy  bhicd. 

What's  hero,  the  sign  of  llio  Cs'-tlef 

'I'.'ien  the  prophecy  is  come  to  pass, 

For  Somerset  was  forewarn'd  of  casvlos., 

Tji?  which  he  always  did  observe, 

A-'id  now  behold,  under  a  paltiy  ale-houso  v>f\. 

The  Castle  in  St.  Alban's,  Somerset 

Hath  made  the  wizard  famous  by  his  deatii. "" 

Is  there  in  this  one  ^'ngle  characteristic  of  the  language  which  ShaJcesjyeare  gives  i-j  Hichard  ?  Is 
there  identity  of  manner  ?  Is  not  the  style  comparatively  puerile  ?  Let  this  and  similar  passages  be 
given  to  the  author  or  authors  of  the  original  play,  but  let  us  retain  for  Shakespeare  the  parts  that  we 
may  fairly  judge  from  comparison  to  have  been  beyond  the  power  of  those  of  his  contemporaries,  whose 
works  have  descended  to  our  times. 

The  following  play,  in  point  of  time,  is  Richard  III.^  which  was  considerably  more  popular  than 
either  the  two  parts  of  the  "  Contention,"  or  any  of  the  three  parts  of  Henry  VI.  There  had 
been  an  older  play  on  the  same  subject,  alluded  to  by  Harrington  in  1591  as  having  been  acted  at  St. 
John's  College,  Cambridge,  but  this  was  in  Latin.  An  English  play,  entitled,  "The  True  Tragedie  of 
Richard  the  Third,  wherein  is  showne  the  death  of  Edward  the  Fourth,  with  the  smothering  of  the 
two  ywng  Princes  in  the  Tower,  with  a  lamentable  ende  of  Shore's  wife,  an  example  for  all  wicked 
women,  and  lastly,  the  conjunction  and  joyning  of  the  two  noble  houses,  Lancaster  and  Yorke," 
appeared  in  1594,  but  there  are  no  strong  grounds  for  believing  it  to  have  been  used  or  even  read  by 
Shakespeare. 

The  series  of  the  historical  plays  concludes  with  Henry  VIII.^  which  was  first  published  in  the 
folio  of  1623.  This  drama  was  produced  after  the  accession  of  the  first  James,  there  being  an  evident 
allusion  to  him  in  the  well  known  lines,  commencing,  "  Nor  shall  this  peace  sleep  with  her."  It  was 
entered  on  the  registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  early  in  1605.  to  N.  Butter,  "yf  he  get  good 
allowance  for  the  Enterlude  of  K.  Henry  8th.  before  he  begyn  to  print  it,  and  then  procure  the  warden's 
hands  to  yt  for  the  entrance  of  yt,  he  is  to  have  the  same  for  his  copy  ;"  but  no  edition  in  quarto,  or 
81  641 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION,  ETC. 


of  that  date,  is  known  to  exist.  It  seems  to  have  been  popular,  and,  according  to  Stowe,  tliough  his 
autnority  on  this  point  has  been  questioned,  the  Globe  Theatre  was  ignited  at  the  fire  in  1613  during 
tne  performance  of  this  play.  Sir  H.  Wotton,  however,  asserts  that  the  play  acted  on  that  lamentable 
occurrence,  was  called,  "All  is  True;"  and  the  most  evident  solution  of  the  discrepancy,  thou2:ii  I 
cannot  biing  myself  to  consider  it  liin  true  one,  is  that  Henry  VIII.  had  a  double  title,  ond  was  socio 
times  known  under  the  denominatiou  cited  by  Wottoa. 
649 


TpHE  plays  of  Shakespeare  which  he  has  founded  upon  English  history,  have  seized  so  strongly  on 
the  national  mind,  that  they  are  received  not  as  dramas  only  but  as  history;  but  our  poet  did 
not  invariably  follow  historic  truth  so  closely  as  he  might  have  done,  nor  are  events  always  re- 
lated with  regard  to  their  order  in  point  of  time.  He  seized  the  most  dramatic  incidents  of  a  reign, 
and  crowded  them  rapidly  one  upon  another,  drawing  them  within  a  narrow  circle,  and  seeking  for 
imity  of  dramatic  interest,  not  unfrequently  passed  over  some  of  the  important  events,  in  reference  to 
the  political  and  social  state  of  the  people.  In  King  John  no  allusion  is  made  to  what  every  Eng- 
lishman must  regard  as  the  great  event  of  that  reign,  the  wringing  from  the  reluctant  tyrant,  at 
Runnymede,  the  great  basis  of  our  national  liberties — the  Magna  Charta,  In  Henry  the  Eighth^ 
also,  the  poet  has,  with  great  art,  forborne  to  touch  upon  any  of  the  numerous  dark  spots  of  that 
monarch's  character,  while  the  great  event  of  that  reign — the  Reformation — remains,  partially  per 
haps  from  the  nature  of  the  subject,  untouched. 

John  ascended  the  throne  in  1199,  in  his  thirty -second  year;  Shakespeare's  play  commences 
shortly  after,  and  embraces  the  whole  of  his  reign,  a  period  of  seventeen  years.  The  first  two  acts 
of  the  play  carry  us  only  through  the  first  year  of  John's  reign,  up  to  1200,  when  he  gave  his  niece 
Blanch,  of  Castile,  in  marriage  to  Lewis,  the  eldest  son  of  Philip  of  France.  John's  divorce  of  his 
first  wife,  and  his  marriage  with  Isabella,  the  daughter  of  the  Count  of  Angouleme,  together  with 
the  consequent  revolts  of  many  of  his  barons,  are  passed  over  in  silence.  The  death  of  Arthur,  the 
young  duke  of  Brittany,  which  occurred  in  1203,  is  not  related  in  the  manner  in  which  it  is  now 
supposed  it  took  place,  although,  as  the  event  is  shrouded  in  mystery,  it  is  possible  Shakespeare's  ac- 
count may  be  the  correct  one.  Arthur  was  not  a  child,  but  rising  to  manhood,  and  had  sought  safety 
from  his  uncle  by  a  coalition  with  Philip,  the  powerful  king  of  France,  to  whose  daughter  he  was 
affianced.  Animated  by  a  love  of  military  fame,  the  young  prince  had  broken  into  Poictou,  at  the 
head  of  a  small  army,  and  hearing  that  his  grandmother,  Queen  Eleanor,  who  had  always  been  his 
enemy,  was  residing  at  Mirabeau,  he  determined  to  take  that  fortress,  and  obtain  possession  of  her 
person;  in  attempting  this,  he  was  himself  captured,  fell  into  the  hands  of  his  uncle  John,  and  was 
committed  to  the  custody  of  Hubert  de  Bourg.  Hubert  saved  the  prince  from  an  assassin  sent  to 
destroy  him,  and  spread  a  report  of  his  death  ;  but  it  excited  such  indignation  in  the  revolted  barons, 
that  he  thought  it  prudent  to  reveal  the  truth.  This  sealed  the  doom  of  the  young  prince;  not  long 
after  he  disappeared,  and  was  never  heard  of  again.  Most  accounts,  however,  represent  the  tyrant  as 
murdering  his  nephew  with  his  own  hands.  This  deed  of  guilt  was  sup2)osed  to  have  taken  place 
at  Rouen ;  Shakespeare  repi-esents  Arthur  to  have  met  his  death  by  attempting  to  escape  from  the 
castle  of  Northampton.  Of  the  prisoners  taken  by  John  with  the  prince,  twenty-two  noblemen  are 
baid  to  have  been  starved  to  death  in  Corfe  Castle. 

A  lapse  of  ten  years  occurs  between  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  of  Shakespeare's  tragedy,  during 
which  the  famous  dispute  between  John  and  the  astute  and  subtle  pontiff",  Innocent  III.,  took  place 
respecting  the  right  of  appointing  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury.  After  the  pope  had  fulminated  the 
^utences  of  excommunication  and  deposition  against  John,  and  had  roused  France  to  execute  the 

fi4,3 


1} 


KING  JOHN. 


latter  decree,  the  feeble  and  vacillating  monarch  humbly  submitted  himself,  and  took  an  oath  of  fealty 
to  Rome.  He  had  previously,  with  flashing  eyes  and  lips  livid  with  anger,  thundered  out  to  his 
trembling  prelates  these  haughty  words : — "By  God's  teeth,  if  you,  or  any  of  your  body,  dare  to  lay 
ray  states  under  interdict,  I  will  send  you  and  all  your  clergy  to  Rome,  and  confiscate  your  property. 
As  for  the  Roman  shavelings,  if  I  find  any  in  my  dominions,  I  will  tear  out  their  eyes  and  cut  off 
their  noses,  and  so  send  them  to  the  pope,  that  the  nations  may  witness  their  infamy."  Had  not 
John's  weakness  and  timidity  been  equal  to  his  ferocity,  he  might  have  been  the  scourge  of  Rome 
and  the  terror  of  Europe. 

On  the  memorable  15th  of  June,  1215,  John  signed  the  Great  Charter  at  Runnymede,  having 
not  long  before  said  : — *'  And  why  do  they  not  demand  my  crown,  also  ?  By  God's  teeth,  I  will  not 
grant  them  liberties  which  will  make  me  a  slave !"  After  signing  this  memorable  deed,  John  was 
plunged  in  despair,  and  is  said  to  have  acted  with  the  furious  imbecility  of  a  madman  ;  he  blasphemed, 
raved,  gnashed  his  teeth,  and  gnawed  sticks  and  straws,  in  the  intensity  of  his  impotent  passion.  He 
soon  repented  of  the  liberty  which  he  had  granted  to  his  barons  and  his  people,  and  made  war  upon 
them  to  regain  it.  He  surrounded  himself  with  a  host  of  savage  foreign  mercenaries,  the  chiefs  of 
whom  were  called  "Manleon,  the  bloody;"  "Falco,  without  bowels;"  "Walter  Buch,  the  murderer;" 
"  Sottim,  the  merciless ;"  and  "  Godeschall,  the  iron-hearted."  These  ruffians  gave  every  village  they 
passed  to  the  flames,  and  put  John's  English  subjects  to  horrible  tortures,  to  compel  them  to  confess 
where  they  had  concealed  their  wealth. 

But  the  hand  of  heaven  arrested  the  progress  of  this  incarnate  fiend ;  John  died  in  the  October 
of  the  year  following  that  in  which  he  had  placed  his  hand  to  the  charter.  He  breathed  his  last  at 
the  castle  of  Newark,  on  the  Trent,  and  not  at  Swinsted  (or  Swineshead)  Abbey.  It  is  possible  that 
he  might  have  been  poisoned,  but  that  story  is  not  told  by  any  writer  of  the  time,  and  is  a  tradition 
on  which  we  cannot  place  much  reliance.  The  most  probable  account  is,  that  he  ate  gluttonously  of 
some  peaches,  and  immediately  after  drank  a  quantity  of  new  cider.  This,  in  his  distempered  state, 
was  cause  enough  to  produce  the  fever  which  destroyed  him.  The  last  acts  of  John's  life,  as  repre- 
sented by  the  iron  pen  of  history,  excite  alternately  the  strongest  feelings  of  indignation  and  disgust ; 
but  the  death  of  John,  as  depicted  by  Shakespeare,  wins  our  pity  foi*  the  expiring  tyrant.  Even 
during  his  life,  the  poet  represents  him  as  not  devoid  of  a  certain  princely  courage  and  dignity. 

A  play,  entitled  The  2'roublesome  Raigne  of  John  King  of  England,  dtc,  in   two  parts,  was 
printed  in  1591,  without  the  name  of  its  author.     Mr.  Malone  supposes  it  to  have  been  written  by 
Robert  Greene,  or  George  Peele ;  and  that  it  certainly  preceded  Shakespeare's  play,  which  is  supposed 
to  have  been  written  in  1596, 
044 


PEESONS    KEPRESENTED 


King  John. 

Appuirs,  Act  I.  sc.  1.  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.  Act  III.  sc.  1. 
6c.  2 ;  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  bc.  8 ;  sc.  7. 

Prince  Henrt,  his  Son  ;  afterwards  King  Henry 
the  Third. 

Appears,  Act  V.  bc.  7. 

Ajithur,  Duke  of  Bretagne ;  Son  of  Geffrey,  late 

Duke  of  Bretagne,  and  Elder  Brother  of 

King  John. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc  1.    Act  III.  sc  1 ;  sc  2 ;  so.  3.    Act  IV. 
sc.  1 ;  sc  3. 

William  Mareshall,  Earl  of  Pembroke. 

Appears,  Act  I.  bc  1.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc  2;  sc.  3. 
Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  7. 

Geffrey  Fitz-Peter,  Earl  of  Essex,  Chief  Jus- 
ticiary of  England. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1. 

William  Longsword,  Earl  of  Salisbury. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  2;  sc.  8. 
Act  V.  8c.  2 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  7. 

Robert  Bigot,  Earl  of  Norfolk. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  3.     Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  7. 

Hubert  De  Burgh,  Chamberlain  to  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc  2 ;  sc.  3. 
Act  V.  sc.  3;  so.  6. 

Robert  Faulconbridge,  Son  of  Sir  Robert  Faul- 

conbridge. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1. 

Philip  Faulconbridge,  his  Half -hr other,  Bastard 

Son  to  King  Richard  the  First. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 .  Act  II.  sc  1 ;  sc.  2.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 
sc.  2;  80.  S.  Act  IV.  so.  2;  sc.  8.  Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2;- 
sc.  6 ;  sc.  7. 

James  Gukney,  Servant  to  Lady  Faulconbridge. 
Appears,  Act  I.  bo.  1. 


Peter  of  Pomfret,  a  Prophet. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Philip,  King  of  France. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  so.  4. 

Lewis,  tlie  Dauphin. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  III.  ac  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V 
BC.  2 ;  sc.  5. 

Akch-duke  of  Austria. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Cardinal  Pandulph,  the  Pope's  Legate. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Melun,  a  French  Lord. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4. 

Chatillon,  Ambassador  from  France  to  King  John 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc  1. 

Elinor,  the  Widow  of  King  Henry  the  Second, 

and  Mother  of  King  John. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc  1.    Act  II.  sc  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  III.  bc  1 ; 
sc.  3. 

Constance,  Mother  to  Arthur. 
Appeal's,  Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc  1 ;  sc.  4. 

Blanch,  Daughter  to  Alphonso,  King  of  Castile, 

and  Niece  to  King  John. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Lady  Faulconbridge,  Mother  to  the  Bastard  and 

Robert  Faulconbridge. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Citizens  of  Anglers,  Sheriff,  Her 

aids,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  and 

other  Attendants. 

SCENE, — Sometimes  in  England,  and  sometimes 
in  France. 

645 


ling  ^oljn 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — Northampton.     A  Room  of  State  in 
the  Palace. 

Enter  King  John,  Queen  Elinor,  Pembroke, 
Essex,  Salisbury,  and  Others,  with  Chatil- 
lon. 

K.  John.  Now,  say,  Chatillon,  what  would  France 

with  us  ? 
Chat.  Thus,  after  greeting,  speaks  the  Idng  of 
France, 
In  my  behaviour,  to  the  majesty, 
The  borrow'd  majesty  of  England  here. 

JEli.  A  strange  beginning : — borrow'd  majesty ! 
K.John.  Silence,  good  mother;  hear  the  embassy. 
Chat.  Philip  of  France,  in  right  and  true  behalf 
Of  thy  deceased  brother  Geffiey's  son, 
Arthur  Plantagenet,  lays  most  lawful  claim 
To  this  fair  island,  and  the  territories ; 
To  Ireland,  Poictiers,  Anjou,  Touraine,  Maine  ; 
Desiiing  thee  to  lay  aside  the  sword, 
Which  sways  usurpingly  these  several  titles ; 
And  put  the  same  into  young  Arthur's  hand, 
Thy  nephew,  and  right  royal  sovereign. 

K.  John.  What  follows,  if  we  disallow  of  this? 
Chat.  The  proud  control  of  fierce  and  bloody 
war. 
To  enforce  these  rights  so  forcibly  withheld. 
K.  John.  Here  have  we  war  for  war,  and  blood 
for  blood, 
Controlment  for  controlment :  so  answer  France. 
Chat.  Then  take  my  king's  defiance  from  my 
mouth. 
The  furthest  limi   of  my  embassy. 
646 


K.  John.  Bear  mine  to  him,  and  so  depart  in 
peace ; 
Be  thou  as  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  France ; 
For  ere  thou  canst  report  I  will  be  there, 
The  thunder  of  my  cannon  shall  be  heard  : 
So,  hence  !  Be  thou  the  trumpet  of  our  wrath, 
And  sullen  presage  of  your  own  decay. — 
An  honourable  conduct  let  him  have  : — 
Pembroke,  look  to 't :  Farewell,  Chatillon. 

\_Exeunt  Chat,  and  Pem, 

Eli.  What  now,  my  son  ?  have  I  not  ever  said. 
How  that  ambitious  Constance  would  not  cease, 
Till  she  had  kindled  France,  and  all  the  world, 
Upon  the  right  and  party  of  her  son  ? 
This  might  have  been  prevented,  and  made  whole, 
With  very  easy  arguments  of  love  ; 
Which  now  the  manage  of  two  kingdoms  must 
With  fearful  bloody  issue  arbitrate. 

K.  John.  Our  strong  possession,  and  our  right, 
for  us. 

Eli.  Your  strong  possession,  much  more  than 
your  right ; 
Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you,  and  me  ; 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear ; 
WTiich  none  but  heaven,  and  you,  and  I,  shall  hear. 

Enter  the  Sheriff  of  Northamptonshire,  who 
whispers  Essex. 

Essex.  My  liege,  here  is  the  strangest  contro- 
versy, 
Come  from  the  country  to  be  judg'd  by  you. 
That  e'er  I  heard  :  Shall  I  produce  the  men? 

K.  John.  Let  them  approach. —     [Exit  SheriflF, 
Our  abbies,  and  our  priories,  shall  pay 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE    I. 


Re-enter  Sheriff,  with  Robert  Faulconbridqe, 
and  Philip,  his  bastard  Brother. 

This  expedition's  charge. — What  men  are  you  ? 

Bast.  Your  faithful  subject  I,  a  gentleman, 
Born  in  Northamptonshire  ;  and  eldest  son, 
As  1  suppose,  to  Robert  Faulconbridge ; 
A  soldier,  by  the  honour-giving  hand 
Of  Coeur-de-lion  knighted  in  the  field. 

K.  John.  What  art  thou  ? 

Rob.  The  son  and  heir  to  that  same  Faulconbridge. 

K.  John.  Is  that  the  elder,  and  art  thou  the  heir  ? 
You  came  not  of  one  mother  then,  it  seems. 

Bast.  Most  certain  of  one  mothei",  mighty  king. 
That  is  well  known  ;  and,  as  I  think,  one  father  ; 
But,  for  the  certain  knowledge  of  that  truth, 
I  put  you  o'er  to  heaven,  and  to  my  mother ; 
Of  that  I  doubt,  as  all  men's  children  may. 

Eli.  Out  on  thee,  rude  man  !  thou  dost  shame 
thy  mother. 
And  wound  her  honour  with  this  diffidence. 

Bast.  I,  madam  ?   no,  I  have  no  reason  for  it ; 
That  is  my  brother's  plea,  and  none  of  mine  ; 
The  which  if  he  can  prove,  'a  pops  me  out 
At  least  from  fair  five  hundred  pound  a  year  : 
Heaven  guard  my  mother's  honom-,  and  my  land  ! 

K.  John.  A  good  blunt  fellow  : — Why,  being 
younger  born, 
Doth  he  lay  claim  to  thine  inheritance  ? 

Bast.  I  know  not  why,  except  to  get  the  land. 
But  once  he  slander'd  me  with  bastardy  ; 
But  whe'r  I  be  as  true  begot,  or  no, 
That  still  I  lay  upon  my  mother's  head  ; 
But,  that  I  am  as  well  begot,  ray  liege, 
(Fair  fall  the  bones  that  took  the  pains  for  me  !) 
Compare  our  faces,  and  be  judge  yourself, 
[f  old  sir  Robert  did  beget  us  both. 
And  were  our  father,  and  this  son  like  him  ; — 
0,  old  sir  Robert,  father,  on  my  knee 
I  give  heaven  thanks,  I  was  not  like  to  thee. 

K.  John.  Why,  what  a  madcap  hath  heaven 
lent  us  here  ! 

EU.  He  hath  a  trick  of  Coeur-de-lion's  face. 
The  accent  of  his  tongue  afiecteth  him  : 
Do  you  not  read  some  tokens  of  my  son 
In  the  large  composition  of  this  man  ? 

K.  John.  Mine  eye  hath  well  examined  his  parts. 

And  finds  them  perfect  Richard. Sirrah,  speak,. 

What  doth  move  you  to  claim  your  brother's  land  ? 

Bast.  Because  he  hath  a  half-face,  like  my  father ; 
With  that  half-face  would  he  have  all  my  land  : 
A  half-faced  groat  five  hundred  pound  a  year  ! 


Rob.  My  gracious  liege,  when  that  my  father  liv'd, 
Your  brother  did  employ  my  father  much ; 

Bast.  Well,  sir,  by  this  you  cannot  get  my  land 
Your  tale  must  be,  how  he  employ'd  my  mother. 

Rob.  And  once  despatch'd  him  in  an  embassy 
To  Germany,  there,  with  the  emperor. 
To  treat  of  high  affairs  touching  that  time  : 
The  advantage  of  his  absence  took  the  king. 
And  in  the  mean  time  sojoum'd  at  my  father's  ; 
Where  how  he  did  prevail,  I  shame  to  speak  : 
But  truth  is  truth ;  large  lengths  of  seas  and  shores 
Between  my  father  and  my  mother  lay, 
(As  I  have  heard  my  father  speak  himself,) 
When  this  same  lusty  gentleman  was  got. 
Upon  his  death-bed  he  by  will  bequeath'd 
His  lands  to  me  ;  and  took  it,  on  his  death. 
That  this,  ray  mother's  son,  was  none  of  his  ; 
And,  if  he  were,  he  came  into  the  world 
Full  fourteen  Aveeks  before  the  course  of  time. 
Then,  good  my  liege^  let  me  have  what  is  mine, 
My  father's  land,  as  was  my  father's  will. 

K.  John.  Sirrah,  your  brother  is  legitimate  ; 
Your  father's  wife  did  after  wedlock  bear  him ; 
And,  if  she  did  play  false,  the  fault  was  hers ; 
Which  fault  Heson  the  hazards  of  all  husbands 
That  marry  wives.     Tell  me,  how  if  my  brother, 
Who,  as  you  say,  took  pains  to  get  this  son. 
Had  of  your  father  claira'd  this  son  for  his  ? 
In  sooth,  good  friend,  your  father  might  have  kept 
This  calf,  bred  from  his  cow,  from  all  the  world  ; 
In  sooth,  he  might :  then,  if  he  Avere  my  brother's. 
My  brother  might  not  claim  him  ;  nor  your  father, 
Being  none  of  his,  refuse  him  :  This  concludes, — 
My  mother's  son  did  get  your  father's  heir ; 
Your  father's  heir  must  have  your  father's  land. 

Rob.  Shall  then  my  father's  will  be  of  no  force. 
To  dispossess  that  child  which  is  not  his? 

Bast.  Of  no  more  force  to  dispossess  me,  sir. 
Than  was  his  will  to  get  me,  as  I  think. 

Eli.  Whether  hadst  thou  rather, — be  a  Faulcon 
bridge. 
And  like  thy  brother,  to  enjoy  thy  land ; 
Or  the  reputed  son  of  Coeur-de-lion, 
Lord  of  thy  presence,  and  no  land  beside  ? 

Bast.  Madam,  an  if  my  brother  had  my  shape, 
And  I  had  his,  sir  Robert  his,  like  him  ; 
And  if  my  legs  were  two  such  riding-rods, 
My  arms  such  eel-skins  stufFd ;  my  face  so  thin. 
That  in  mine  ear  I  durst  not  stick  a  rose, 
Lest  men  should  say,  Look,  where  three-farthings 

goes!' 
And,  to  his  shape,  were  heir  to  all  this  land, 

647 


ACT   1 


KING  JOHN. 


'Would  I  might  never  stir  from  off  this  place, 
r  M  give  it  every  foot  to  have  this  face  ; 
I  would  not  be  sir  Nob  in  any  case.^ 

Eli.  I  like  thee  well :  Wilt  thou  forsake  thy  for- 
tune, 
n.equeath  thy  land  to  him,  and  follow  me  ? 
[  am  a  soldier,  and  now  bound  to  France. 

Bast.  Brother,  take  you  my  laud,  I  '11  take  my 
chance  : 
Your  face  hath  got  five  hundred  pounds  a  year ; 
Yet  sell  your  face  for  five-pence,  and  't  is  dear. — 
Madam,  I  '11  follow  you  unto  the  death. 

Eli.  Nay,  I  would  have  you  go  before  me  thither. 

Bast.  Our  countiy  manners  give  our  betters  way. 

K.  John.  What  is  thy  name  ? 

Bast.  Philip,  my  liege  ;  so  is  my  name  begun ; 
Philip,  good  old  sir  Robert's  wife's  eldest  son. 

K.  John.  From  henceforth  bear  his  name  whose 
form  thou  bear'st : 
Kneel  thou  down  Philip,  but  ai-ise  more  great ; 
Arise  sir  Richard,  and  Plantageuet. 

Bust.  Brother,  by  the  mother's  side,  give  me 
your  hand ; 
My  father  gave  me  honour,  yours  gave  land  : — 
Now  blessed  be  the  hour,  by  night  or  day. 
When  I  was  got,  sir  Robei't  was  away. 

Eli.  The  very  spirit  of  Plantageuet ! — 
I  am  thy  grandame,  Richard ;  call  me  so. 

Bast.  Madam,  by  chance,  but  not  by  truth : 
What  though  ? 
Something  about,  a  little  from  the  right, 

In  at  the  window,  or  else  o'er  the  hatch : 
Who  dares  not  stir  by  day,  must  walk  by  night ; 

And  have  is  have,  however  men  do  catch ; 
Near  or  far  off,  well  won  is  still  well  shot ; 
And  I  am  I,  howe'er  I  was  begot. 

K.  John.  Go,  Faulconbridge ;   now  hast   thou 
thy  desii'e, 
A  landless  knight  makes  thee  a  landed  'squire. — 
Come,  madam,  and  come,  Richard ;  we  must  speed 
For  France,  for  France ;  for  it  is  more  than  need. 

Bast.  Brother, adieu :  Good  foitune come  to  thee ! 
For  thou  wast  got  i'  the  way  of  hone^jj. 

\^Exeunt  all  but  the  Bastard. 
A  foot  of  honour  better  than  I  was ; 
But  many  a  many  foot  of  land  the  worse. 

Well,  now  can  I  make  any  Joan  a  lady : 

"  Good  den,  sir  Richard, — God-a-meicy,  fellow ;" — 
And  if  his  name  be  George,  I  '11  call  him  Peter: 
For  new-made  honour  doth  foi-got  men's  names ; 
'T  is  too  respective,  and  too  sociable. 
For  your  conversion.     Now  your  traveller, — 
648 


He  and  his  tooth-pick  at  my  woi-ship's  mess ; 
And  when  my  knightly  stomach  is  sufiic'd, 
W^hy  then  I  suck  my  teeth,  and  catechise 

My  picked  man  of  countries  :' "My  dear  sir," 

(Thus,  leaning  on  mine  elbov/,  I  begin,) 
"  I  shall  beseech  you" — That  is  question  now ; 
And  then  comes  answer  like  an  ABC-book  :* — 
"  O  sir,"  says  answer,  "  at  your  best  command  ; 

At  your  employment ;  at  your  service,  sir :" 

"  No,  sir,"  says  question,  "  I,  sweet  sir,  at  yours  :'' 

And  so,  ere  answer  knows  what  question  would, 

(Saving  in  dialogue  of  compliment ; 

And  talking  of  the  Alps,  and  Apennines, 

The  Pyrenean,  and  the  river  Po,) 

It  draws  toward  supper  in  conclusion  so. 

But  this  is  worshipful  society. 

And  fits  the  mounting  spirit,  like  myself : 

For  he  is  but  a  bastard  to  the  time, 

That  doth  not  smack  of  observation ; 

(And  so  am  I,  whether  I  smack,  or  no ;) 

And  not  alone  in  habit  and  device, 

Exterior  form,  outward  accoutrement ; 

But  from  the  inward  motion  to  deliver 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  poison  for  the  age's  tooth  : 

Which,  though  I  will  not  practise  to  deceive, 

Yet,  to  avoid  deceit,  I  mean  to  learn ; 

For  it  shall  strew  the  footsteps  of  my  rising. — 

But  who  comes  in  such  haste,  in  riding  robes  ? 

What  woman-post  is  this?  hath  she  no  husband. 

That  will  take  pains  to  blow  a  hom  before  her  ? 

Enter  Lady  Faulconbridge  o.nd  James  Gukney. 

0  me !  it  is  my  mother  : — How  now,  good  lady  ? 
What  brings  you  hei'e  to  court  so  hastily  ? 

Lady  F.  Where  is  that  slave,  thy  brother  ?  where 
is  he 
That  holds  in  chase  mine  honour  up  and  down  ? 

Bast.  My  brother  Robert  ?  old  sir  Robert's  son  ? 
Colbrand  the  giant,"  that  same  mighty  man  ? 
Is  it  sir  Robert's  son,  that  you  seek  so  ? 

Lady  F.  Sir  Robert's  sou !  Ay,  thou  unreverend 
boy. 
Sir  Robert's  son  :  Why  scorn'st  thou  at  sir  Robert  1 
He  is  sir  Robert's  son ;  and  so  art  thou. 

Bast.  James  Guraey,  wilt  thou  give  us  leave  a 
while  ? 

Chjbr.  Good  leave,  good  Philip. 

Bast.  Philip  ? — sparrow  ! — James, 

There 's  toys  abroad  f  anon  I  '11  tell  thee  more. 

YExit  GtJR, 
Madam,  I  was  not  old  sir  Robert's  son  ; 
Sir  Robert  might  have  eat  his  part  in  me 


KING  JOHN. 


Upon  Good  -Friday,  and  ne'er  broke  his  fast : 
Sir  Robert  could  do  well ;  Marry,  (to  confess  !) 
Could  he  get  me  ?    Sir  Eobert  could  not  do  it ; 
We  know  his  handy-work : — Therefore,  good  mo- 
ther, 
To  whom  am  I  beholden  for  these  limbs  ? 
Sir  Robert  never  holp  to  make  this  leg. 

LadyF.  Hast  thou  conspired  with  thy  brother  too, 
That  for    thine  own  gain    should'st  defend  mine 

honour  ? 
What  means  this  scorn,  thou  most  untoward  knave  ? 
Bast.  Knight,  kuight,  good  mother, — Basilisco- 
like  -J 
What !  I  am  dubb'd ;  I  have  it  on  my  shoulder. 
But,  mother,  I  am  not  sir  Robert's  son ; 
I  have  disci  aim'd  sir  Robert,  and  my  land ; 
Legitimation,  name,  and  all  is  gone  : 
Then,  good  my  mother,  let  me  know  my  father ; 
Some  proper  man,  I  hope  :  Who  was  it,  mother  ? 
Lady  F.  Hast  thou  denied  thyself  a  Faulcon- 

bridge  ? 
Bast.  As  faithfully  as  I  deny  the  devil. 
Lady  F.  King  Richard  Cceur-de-lion  was  thy 
father; 


By  long  and  vehement  suit  I  was  seduc'd 

To  make  room  for  him  in  my  husband's  bed  :— — 

Heaven  lay  not  my  transgression  to  my  charge ! — 

Tliou  art  the  issue  of  my  dear  offence. 

Which  was  so  strongly  urg'd,  past  my  defence. 

Bast.  Now,  by  this  light,  were  I  to  get  again. 
Madam,  I  would  not  wish  a  better  father. 
Some  sins  do  bear  their  privilege  on  earth. 
And  so  doth  yours ;  your  fault  was  not  your  folly ; 
Needs  must  you  lay  your  heart  at  his  dispose, — 
Subjected  tribute  to  commanding  love, — 
Against  whose  fuiy  and  unmatched  force 
The  awless  lion  could  not  wage  the  fight, 
Nor  keep  his  princely  heart  from  Richard's  hand.' 
He,  that  peifoi'ce  robs  lions  of  their  hearts, 
May  easily  win  a  woman's.     Ay,  my  mother. 
With  all  my  heart  I  thank  thee  for  my  father ! 
Who  lives  and  dares  but  say,  thou  didst  not  well 
When  I  was  got,  I  '11  send  his  soul  to  hell. 
Come,  lady,  I  will  show  thee  to  ray  kin ; 

And  they  shall  say,  when  Richard  me  begot. 
If  thou  hadst  said  him  nay,  it  had  been  sin  : 

Who  says  it  was,  he  lies ;  I  say,  'twas  not. 

\  Exeunt 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  L— France.   Before  the  Walls  of  Anglers. 

ter.,  on  one  side,  the  Archduke  of  Austria,  and 
Forces  ;  on  the  other,  Philip,  King  of  France, 
and  Forces  ;  Lewis,  Constance,  Arthur,  and 
Attendants. 

Lew.  Before  Anglers  well  met,  brave  Austria. — 
Arthur,  that  great  forerunner  of  thy  blood, 
Richard,  that  robb'd  the  lion  of  his  heart, 
And  fought  the  holy  wars  in  Palestine, 
By  this  brave  duke  came  early  to  his  grave : 
And,  for  amends  to  his  posterity. 
At  our  importance  hither  is  he  come. 
To  spread  his  colours,  boy,  in  thy  behalf; 
And  to  rebuke  the  usurpation 
Of  thy  unnatural  uncle,  English  John  : 
Embra«!e  him,  love  him,  give  him  welcome  hither. 

Arth.  God  shall  forgive  you  Coeur-de-lion's  death. 
The  rather,  that  you  give  his  offspring  life. 
Shadowing  their  right  under  your  wings  of  war : 
I  give  you  welcome  with  a  powerless  hand, 
But  with  a  heart  full  of  unstained  love : 

S-2 


Welcome  before  the  gates  of  Anglers,  duke. 

Le^o.  A  noble  boy !  Who  would  not  do  thee  right  1 

Aust.  Upon  thy  cheek  lay  I  this  zealous  kiss. 
As  seal  to  this  indenture  of  my  love ; 
That  to  my  home  I  will  no  more  return, 
Till  Anglers,  and  the  right  thou  hast  in  France, 
Together  with  that  pale,  that  white-fac'd  shore. 
Whose  foot  spurns  back  the  ocean's  roaring  tides, 
And  coops  from  other  lands  her  islanders. 
Even  till  that  England,  hedg'd  in  with  the  main, 
That  water-walled  bulwark,  still  secure 
And  confident  from  foreign  pui-poses. 
Even  till  that  utmost  corner  of  the  west 
Salute  thee  for  her  king :  till  then,  fair  boy, 
Will  I  not  think  of  home,  but  follow  arras. 

Const.  0,  take  his  raother's  thanks,  a  wido^^'s 
thanks. 
Till  your   strong  hand   shall  help   to   give   him 

strength. 
To  make  a  raore  requital  to  your  love. 

Aust.  The  peace  of  heaven  is  theirs,  that  lift 
their  swords 

649 


ACT  II. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE  1. 


In  such  a  just  and  charitable  war. 

K.  Phi.  Well  then,  to  work ;  oui'  cannon  shall 
be  bent 

Against  the  brows  of  this  resisting  town. ■ 

Call  for  our  chiefest  men  of  discipline, 
To  cull  the  plots  of  best  advantages : — 
We  'II  lay  before  this  town  our  royal  bones, 
Wade  to  the  market-place  in  Frenchmen's  blood, 
But  we  will  make  it  subject  to  this  boy. 

Const.  Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy, 
Lest  uuadvis'd  you  stain  your  swords  with  blood : 
My  lord  Chatillon  may  from  England  bring 
That  right  in  peace,  which  here  we  urge  in  war ; 
And  then  we  shall  repent  each  diop  of  blood, 
That  hot  rash  haste  so  indiscreetly  shed. 

Enter  Chatillon. 

K.  Phi.  A  wonder,  lady  ! — lo,  upon  thy  wish, 
Our  messenger  Chatillon  is  arriv'd. — 
What  England  says,  say  briefly,  gentle  lord, 
We  coldly  pause  for  thee  ;  Chatillon,  speak. 

Chat.  Then  turn  your  forces  from  this  paltry 
siege. 
And  stir  them  up  against  a  mightier  task. 
England,  impatient  of  your  just  demands. 
Hath  put  himself  in  arms ;  the  adverse  winds. 
Whose  leisure  I  have  staid,  have  given  him  time 
To  land  his  legions  all  as  soon  as  I : 
His  marches  are  expedient  to  this  town. 
His  forces  strong,  his  soldiers  confident. 
With  him  along  is  come  the  mother-queen, 
An  Ate,  stirring  him  to  blood  and  strife  ; 
With  her  her  niece,  the  lady  Blanch  of  Spain  ; 
With  them  a  bastard  of  the  king  deceas'd  : 
And  all  the  unsettled  humors  of  the  land, — 
Rash,  inconsiderate,  fiery  voluntaries. 
With  ladies'  faces,  and  fierce  dragons'  spleens, — 
Have  sold  their  fortunes  at  their  native  homes. 
Bearing  their  birthrights  proudly  on  their  backs, 
To  make  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  here. 
In  brief,  a  braver  choice  of  dauntless  spirits, 
Thau  now  the  English  bottoms  have  waft  o'er, 
Did  never  float  upon  the  swelling  tide, 
To  do  oflfence  and  scath  in  Christendom. 
The  interruption  of  their  churlish  drums 

[Drums  heat. 
Cuts  off  more  circumstance :  they  are  at  hand, 
To  parley,  or  to  fight ;  therefore,  prepare. 

K.  Phi.  How  much  unlook'd  for  is  this  expedi- 
tion ! 

Auet,  By  how  much  unexpected,  by  so  much 
We  must  awake  endeavour  for  defence ; 
650 


For  courage  mounteth  with  occasion : 

Let  them  be  welcome  then,  we  are  prepar'd. 

Enter  King  John,  Elinor,  Blanch,  the  Bastard 
Pembroke,  and  Forces. 

K.  John.  Peace  be  to  France ;  if  France  in  peace 
permit 
Our  just  and  lineal  entrance  to  our  own!     -; 
If  not ;  bleed  France,  and  peace  ascend  to  heaven ! 
Whiles  we,  God's  wrathful  agent,  do  correct 
Their  proud  contempt  that  beat  his  peace  to  heaven. 

K.  Phi.  Peace  be  to  England  ;  if  that  war  retui'n 
From  France  to  England,  there  to  live  in  peace ! 
England  we  love ;  and,  for  that  England's  sake 
With  burden  of  our  armour  here  we  sweat : 
This  toil  of  ours  should  be  a  work  of  thine  ; 
But  thou  from  loving  England  art  so  far, 
That  thou  hast  under-wrought  his  lawful  king, 
Cut  off"  the  sequence  of  posterity. 
Outfaced  infant  state,  and  done  a  rape 
Upon  the  maiden  virtue  of  the  crown. 
Look  here  upon  thy  brother  Geffrey's  face ; — 
These  eyes,  these  brows,  were  moulded  out  of  his ; 
This  little  abstract  doth  contain  that  large, 
Which  died  in  Geffrey ;  and  the  hand  of  time 
Shall  draw  this  brief  into  as  huge  a  volume. 
That  Geffrey  was  thy  elder  brother  born. 
And  this  his  son  ;  England  was  Geffrey's  right, 
And  this  is  Geffrey's :  In  the  name  of  God, 
How  comes  it  then,  that  thou  art  call'd  a  king, 
When  living  blood  doth  in  these  temples  beat, 
Which  owe  the  crown  that  thou  o'ermasterest  ? 

K.  John.  From  whom  hast  thou  this  great  com- 
mission. Franco, 
To  draw  my  answer  from  thy  articles  ? 

K.  Phi.    From  that  supernal  judge,  that  stire 
good  thoughts 
In  any  breast  of  strong  authority. 
To  look  into  the  blots  and  stains  of  right. 
That  judge  hath  made  me  guardian  to  this  boy : 
Under  whose  warrant,  I  impeach  thy  wi-ong ; 
And,  by  whose  help,  I  mean  to  chastise  it. 

K.  John.  Alack,  thou  dost  usurp  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Excuse ;  it  is  to  beat  usurping  down. 

Eli.  Who  is  it,  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France  ? 

Const.   Let   me   make  answer ; — thy  usurping 
son. 

Eli.  Out,  insolent !  thy  bastard  shall  be  king ; 
That  thou  may'st  be  a  queen,  and  check  the  world '. 

Const.  My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true, 
As  thine  was  to  thy  husband :  and  this  boy 
Liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geffrey, 


'^':H[r^r®;igr'f-  })^tmn  4^  tSm^-^'AM^i  $M^hp  ^■M  ifmm  r 


'UZV&  dofUt"    Km*  John  Act  2.  Scl 


KING  JOHN. 


SQPNE    X. 


Than  thou  and  John  in  manners  ;  being  as  like, 

As  rain  to  water,  or  devil  to  his  dam. 

My  boy  a  bastard !     By  my  soul,  I  think, 

His  father  never  was  so  true  begot ; 

It  cannot  be,  an  if  tnou  wert  his  mother.^ 

Eli.  There 's  a  good  mother,  boy,  that  blots  thy 
father. 

Const.  There 's  a  good  grandam,  boy,  that  would 
blot  thee. 

Aust.  Peace ! 

Bast.  Hear  the  crier. 

Aust.  What  the  devil  art  thou  ? 

Bast.    One  that  will  play  the  devil    sir,  with 

you, 

A.n  'a  may  catch  your  hide  and  you  alone. 
You  are  the  hare  of  whom  the  proverb  goes, 
Whose  valour  plucks  dead  lions  by  the  beard ; 
I  'U  smoke  your  skin-coat,  an  I  catch  you  right ; 
Sirrah,  look  to  't ;  i'  faith,  T  will,  i'  faith. 

Blanch.  O,  well  did  he  become  that  Hon  s  robe, 
That  did  disrobe  the  lion  of  that  robe  ! 

Bast.  It  lies  as  sightly  on  the  back  of  him, 
As  great  Alcides'  shoes  upon  an  ass : — 
But,  ass,  I  '11  take  that  burden  from  your  back ; 
Or  lay  on  that,  skall  make  vour  shoulders  crack. 

Aust.  What  cracker  is  this  same,  that  deats  our 
ears 
With  this  abundance  of  superfluoiis  breath  ? 

K.  Phi.   Lewis,  determine  wnat  we  shad  do 
straight. 

Lew.  Women   and  fools,   break  off  your  con- 
ference.— 
King  John,  this  is  the  very  sum  of  all, — 
England,  and  L'eland,  Anjou,  Tourame,  Mame, 
In  right  of  Arthur  do  I  ciaim  of  thee  : 
Wilt  thou  resign  them,  and  lay  down  thy  aims  ? 

K.  John.  My  life  as  soon : — I  do  defy  thee, 
France. 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  yield  thee  to  my  hand ; 
And,  out  of  my  dear  love,  I  '11  give  thee  more 
Than  e'er  the  coward  hand  of  France  can  win : 
Submit  thee,  boy. 

Eli.  Come  to  thy  grandam,  child. 

Const.  Do,  child,  go  to  it'  grandam,  child ; 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it'  grandam  wdl 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  chei-ry,  and  a  fig : 
There  's  a  good  grandam. 

Arth.  Good  my  mother,  peace ! 

I  would,  that  1  were  low  laid  in  my  grave ; 
I  am  not  worth  this  coil  that  's  made  for  me. 

Eli.  His  mother  shames  him  so,  poor  boy,  he 
weeps. 


Const.  Now  shame  upon  you,  whe'r  she  does, 
or  no. 
His  grandam's  wrongs,  and  not  his  mother's  shames. 
Draw  those  heaven-moving  peals  from  his  poor  eyes, 
Which  heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a  fee  ; 
Ay,  with  these  crystal  beads  heaven  shall  be  brib'd 
To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 

Eli.  Thou  monstrous  slanderer  of  heaven  and 
earth ! 

Const.  Thou  monstrous  injurer  of  heaven  and 
earth ! 
Call  not  me  slanderer ;  thou,  and  thine,  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights, 
Of  this  oppressed  boj' :  This  is  thy  eldest  son's  son, 
Infortunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee  ; 
Thy  sins  are  visited  in  this  poor  child ; 
The  cannon  of  the  law  is  laid  on  him. 
Being  but  the  second  generation 
Removed  from  thy  sin-couceiviag  womb. 

Jl.  John.  Bedlam,  have  done. 

Const.  I  have  but  this  to  say, 

That  he  's  not  only  plagued  for  her  sin, 
But  God  hath  made  her  sin  and  her  the  plague 
On  this  removed  issue,  plagu'd  for  her, 
And  with  her  plague,  her  sin :  his  injury 
Her  injury, — the  beadle  to  her  sin  ; 
All  punish'd  in  the  person  of  this  child, 
And  all  for  her :  A  plague  upon  her ! 

Eli.  Thou  unadvised  scold,  I  can  produce 
A  -will,  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son. 

Const.  Ay,  who  doubts  that  ?  a  will !  a  wicked 
will ; 
A  woman's  will ;  a  canker'd  grandam's  will ! 

K.  Phi.  Peace,  lady ;  pause,  or  be  more  tempe- 
rate : 
It  ill  beseems  this  presence,  to  cry  aim" 
To  these  ill-tuned  repetitions. — 
Some  tnimpet  summon  hither  to  the  walls, 
These  men  of  Anglers ;  let  us  hear  them  speak, 
WTiose  title  they  admit,  Arthur's  or  John's, 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Citizens  upon  the  walls, 

1st  Cit.  Who  is  it,  that  hath  warn'd  us  to  the 

walls  ? 
K  Phi.  'Tis  France,  for  England. 
IT.  John.  England,  for  itself: 

You  men  of  Anglers,  and  my  loving  subjects, 

K.  Phi.  You  loving  men  of  Anglers,  Arthur's 
■  subjects, 
Our  trumpet  call'd  you  to  this  gentle  parle. 
IT.  John.  For  our  advantage ; — Therefore,  here 

us  first. 

651 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE   1. 


These  flags  of  France,  that  are  advanced  here 
Before  the  eye  and  prospect  of  your  town, 
Have  hither  march'd  to  your  endamagement ; 
The  cannons  have  their  bowels  full  of  wrath  ; 
And  ready  mounted  are  they,  to  spit  forth 
Their  iron  indignation  'gainst  your  walls : 
All  preparation  for  a  bloody  siege, 
And  merciless  proceeding  by  these  French, 
•Jonfrout  your  city's  eyes,  your  winking  gates ; 
And,  but  for  our  approach,  those  sleeping  stones 
That  as  a  waist  do  girdle  you  about. 
By  the  compulsion  of  their  ordnance 
By  this  time  from  their  fixed  beds  of  lime 
Had  been  dishabited,  and  wide  havoc  made 
For  bloody  power  to  rush  upon  your  peace. 

But,  on  the  sight  of  us,  your  lawful  king, 

Who  painfully,  with  much  expedient  march. 

Have  brought  a  countercheck  before  your  gates, 

To  save  unscratch'd  your  city's  threaten'd  cheeks, — 

Behold,  the  French,  amaz'd,  vouchsafe  a  parle : 

And  now,  instead  of  bullets  wrapp'd  in  fire. 

To  make  a  shaking  fever  in  your  walls. 

They  shoot  but  calm  words,  folded  up  in  smoke. 

To  make  a  faithless  error  in  your  ears : 

Which  trust  accordingly,  kind  citizens. 

And  let  us  in.     Your  king,  whose  labour'd  spirits, 

Forewearied  in  this  action  of  swift  speed, 

Craves  harbourage  within  your  city  walls. 

K.  Phi.  When  I  have  said,  make  answer  to  us 
both. 
Lo,  in  this  right  hand,  whose  protection 
Is  most  divinely  vow'd  upon  the  right 
Of  him  it  holds,  stands  young  Plantagenet ; 
Son  to  the  elder  brother  of  this  man. 
And  king  o'er  him,  and  all  that  he  enjoys  ; 
For  this  down-trodden  equity,  we  tread 
In  warlike  march  these  greens  before  your  town, 
Being  no  further  enemy  to  you. 
Than  the  constraint  of  hospitable  zeal, 
In  the  relief  of  this  oppressed  child. 
Religiously  provokes.     Be  pleased  then 
To  pay  that  duty,  which  you  truly  owe. 
To  him  that  owes  it ;  namely,  this  young  prince ; 
And  then  our  arms,  like  to  a  muzzled  bear, 
Save  in  aspect,  have  all  ofi'ence  seal'd  up ; 
Our  cannons'  malice  vainly  shall  be  spent 
Against  the  invulnerable  clouds  of  heaven ; 
And,  with  a  blessed  and  unvex'd  retire, 
With  unhack'd  swords,  and  helmets  all  Unbruis'd, 
We  will  bear  home  that  lusty  blood  again, 
Which  here  we  came  to  spout  against  your  town, 
Ami  leave  your  children,  wives,  and  you,  in  peace. 
652 


But  if  you  fondly  pass  our  proflfer'd  ofFei, 
'Tis  not  theroundure"  of  your  old-fac'd  walls 
Can  hide  you  from  our  messengers  of  war  ; 
Though  all  these  English,  and  their  discipline, 
Were  harbour'd  in  their  rude  circumference. 
Then,  tell  us,  shall  your  city  call  us  lord, 
In  that  behalf  which  we  have  challeng'd  it  ? 
Or  shall  we  give  the  signal  to  our  rage. 
And  stalk  in  blood  to  our  possession  ? 

\si  Cit.  In  brief,  we  are  the  king  of  England's 
subjects ; 
For  him,  and  in  his  right,  we  hold  this  town. 
IT.  John.  Acknowledge  then  the  king,  and  .ei 

me  in. 
Ist  Cit.  That  can  we  not :  but  he  that  proves 
the  king. 
To  him  will  wo  jwove  loyal ;  till  that  time, 
Have  we  ramm'd  up  our  gates  against  the  world. 
IT.  John.  Doth  not  the  crown  of  England  prove 
the  king  ? 
And,  if  not  that,  I  bring  you  witnesses. 
Twice  fifteen  thousand  hearts  of  England's  breed, — 
JBast.  Bastards,  and  else. 
IC.  John.  To  verify  our  title  with  their  lives. 
IT.  Phi.  As  many,  and  as  well-born  bloods  a* 

those, 

Bast.  Some  bastards  too. 

IT.  Phi.  Stand  in   his  face,  to  contradict  tu» 

claim. 
1st  Cit.  Till  you  compound  whose  right  is  wor- 
thiest. 
We  for  the  worthiest,  hold  the  right  from  both. 
K.  John.  Tlien  God  forgive  the  sin  of  all  those 
souls. 
That  to  their  everlasting  residence, 
Before  the  dew  of  evening  fall,  shall  fleet. 
In  dreadful  trial  of  our  kingdom's  king  ! 

K.  Phi.  Amen,  amen  : — Mount,  chevaliers !  to 

arms ! 
Bast.  St.  George, — that  swing'd  the  dragon,  ana 
e'er  since 
Sits  on  his  horseback  at  mine  hostess'  door. 
Teach  us  some  fence  ! — Siirah,  were  I  at  home, 
At  your  den,  sirrah,  [To  Aust.]  with  your  lioness. 
I  'd  set  an  ox-head  to  your  lion's  hide. 
And  make  a  monster  of  you. 

Aust.  Peace  ;  no  more. 

Bast.  O,  tremble ;  for  you  Lear  the  lion  roar. 
K.  John.  Up  higher  to  the  plain ;  where  we  'h 
set  forth. 
In  best  appointment,  all  our  regiments. 

Bast.  Speed  then,  to  take  advantage  of  the  field 


KING  JOHN. 


K.   Phi.  It  shall  be  so ; — [7'o  Lew.]  and  at  the 
other  hill 
Command  the  rest  to  stand, — God,  and  our  right ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  I[.—The  Same. 

Alarums  and  Excursions  ;  then  a  Betreat.     Enter 
a  French  Herald,  with  trumiiets^  to  the  gates. 

F.  Her.  You  men  of  Anglers,  open  wide  your 
gates, 
And  let  young  Arthur,  duke  of  Bretagne,  in  ; 
Who,  by  the  hand  of  France,  this  day  hath  made 
Much  work  for  tears  in  many  an  English  mother, 
Whose  sons  he  scatter'd  on  the  bleeding  ground : 
Many  a  widow's  husband  grovelling  lies, 
Coldly  embracing  the  discolour'd  earth ; 
And  victory,  with  little  loss,  doth  play 
Upon  the  dancing  banners  of  the  French 
Who  are  at  hand,  triumphantly  display'd, 
To  enter  conquerors,  and  to  proclaim 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  England's  king,  and  yours. 

Enter  an  English  Herald,  with  trumpets. 

E.  Her.  Rejoice,  you  men  of  Angiers,  ring  your 
bells  ; 
King  John,   your  king  and  England's,  doth  ap- 
proach 
Commander  of  this  hot  malicious  day  ! 
Their  armours,  that  march'd  hence  so  silver-bright, 
Hither  return  all  gilt  with  Frenchmen's  blood ; 
There  stuck  no  plume  in  any  English  crest. 
That  is  removed  by  a  staff  of  France ; 
Our  colours  do  return  in  those  same  hands 
That   did   display  them  when  we  first   march'd 

forth; 
And,  like  a  jolly  troop  of  huntsmen,  come 
Our  lusty  English,  all  with  purpled  hands,'^ 
Died  in  the  dying  slaughter  of  their  foes : 
Open  your  gates,  and  give  the  victore  way. 

Cit.    Heralds,  from   off  our  towers  we  might 
behold, 
From  first  to  last,  the  onset  and  retire 
Of  both  your  armies ;  whose  equality 
By  our  best  eyes  cannot  be  censured  :" 
Blood  hath  bought  blood,  and  blows  have  answer'd 

blows ; 
Strength  match'd  with  strength,  and  power  con- 
fronted power : 
Both  art  alike ;  and  both  ahke  we  like. 
One  must  prove  greatest:  while  they  weigh  so  even 
We  hold  our  town  for  neither ;  yet  for  both. 


Enter,  at  one  side,  King  Joiix,  uith  his  poiver  ^ 
Elinor,  Blanch,  and  the  Bastaid  ;  at  the  other. 
King  Philip,  Lewis,  Austria,  and  Forces. 

E.  John.  France,  hast  thou  yet  more  blood  to 
cast  away  ? 
Say,  shall  the  current  of  our  light  run  on  ? 
Whose  passage,  vex'd  with  thy  impediment. 
Shall  leave  his  native  channel,  and  o'er-swell 
With  course  disturb'd  even  thy  confining  shores ; 
Unless  thou  let  his  silver  water  keep 
A  peaceful  progress  to  the  ocean. 

E.  Phi.  England,  thou  hast  not  sav'd  one  drop 
of  blood. 
In  this  hot  trial,  more  than  we  of  France ; 
Rather,  lost  more :  And  by  this  hand  I  swear. 
That  sways  the  earth  this  climate  overlooks — 
Before  we  will  lay  down  our  just-borne  arms. 
We  '11  put  thee  down,  'gainst  whom  these  arms  we 

bear. 
Or  add  a  royal  number  to  the  dead ; 
Gracing  the  scroll,  that  tells  of  this  war's  loss. 
With  slaughter  coupled  to  the  name  of  kings. 

Bast.  Ha,  majesty  !  how  high  thy  glory  towers, 
When  the  rich  blood  of  kings  is  set  on  fire ! 
0,  now  doth  death  line  his  dead  chaps  with  steel ; 
The  swords  of  soldiers  are  his  teeth,  his  fangs ; 
And  now  he  feasts,  mouthing  the  flesh  of  men. 
In  undetermin'd  differences  of  kings. — 
Why  stand  these  royal  fronts  amazed  thus  ? 
Cry,  havoc,  kings :  back  to  the  stained  field, 
You  equal  potents,  fieiy-kindled  spii'its ! 
Then  let  confusion  of  onp  nart  confirm 
The  other's   peace ;    till    then,  blows,  blood,  and 
death ! 
E.  John.  Whose  party  do  the  townsmen  yet 

admit  ? 
E.  Phi.  Speak,  citizens,  for  England ;   who  's 

your  king? 
1st  Cit.  The  king  of  England,  when  we  know 

the  king. 
E.  Phi.  Know  him  in  us,  that  here  hold  up  his 

right. 
E.  John.  In  us,  that  are  our  own  great  deputy, 
And  bear  possession  of  our  person  here ; 
Lord  of  our  presence,  Angiers,  and  o^  voii, 

1st  Cit.  A  greater  power  than   we,  denies  al 
this: 
And,  till  it  be  undoubted,  we  do  lock 
Our  former  scruple  in  oui  strong-barr'd  gates ; 
King'd  of  our  fears ;  until  our  fears,  resolv'd, 
Be  by  some  certain  king  purg'd  and  depos'd. 

653 


ACT   II. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE  n. 


Bast.  By  heaven,  these  scroyles  of  Anglers'^  flout 
you,  kings ; 
And  stand  securely  on  their  battlements, 
As  in  a  theatre,  whence  they  gape  and  point 
At  your  industrious  scenes  and  acts  of  death. 
Your  royal  presences  be  rul'd  by  me ; 
Do  like  the  mutines  of  Jerusalem,'* 
Be  friends  a  while,  and  both  conjointly  bend 
Your  sharpest  deeds  of  malice  on  this  town : 
By  east  and  west  let  France  and  England  mount 
Their  battering  cannon,  charged  to  the  mouths ; 
Till  their  soul-fearing  clamours  have  brawi'd  down 
The  flinty  ribs  of  this  contemptuous  city : 
I  'd  play  incessantly  upon  these  jades, 
Even  till  unfenccd  desolation 
Leave  them  as  naked  as  the  vulgar  air. 
That  done,  dissever  your  united  strengths. 
And  part  your  mingled  colours  once  again ; 
Turn  face  to  face,  and  bloody  point  to  point : 
Then,  in  a  moment,  fortune  shfdl  cull  forth 
Out  of  one  side  her  happy  minion  ; 
To  whom  in  favour  she  shall  give  the  day, 
And  kiss  him  with  a  glorious  victory. 
How  like  you  this  wild  counsel,  mighty  states? 
Smacks  it  not  something  of  the  policy  ? 

K.  John.  Now,  by  the  sky  that  hangs  above  our 
heads, 
I  hke  it  well; — France,  shall  we  knit  our  powers. 
And  lay  this  Angiers  even  with  the  ground  ; 
Then,  after,  fight  who  shall  be  king  of  it? 

Bast.  An  if  thou  hast  the  mettle  of  a  king, — 
Being  wrong'd,  as  Ave  are,  by  this  peevish  town, — 
Turn  thou  the  mouth  of  thy  artillery. 
As  we  will  ours,  against  these  saucy  walls  : 
And  when  that  we  have  dash'd  them  to  the  ground, 
Why,  then  defy  each  other;  and,  pell-mell. 
Make  work  upon  ourselves,  for  heaven,  or  hell. 

K.  Phi.  Let  it  be  so  : — Say,  where  will   you 
assault  ? 

K.John.  We  from  the  west  will  send  destruction 
Into  this  city's  bosom. 

A%st.  I  from  the  north. 

K.  Phi.  Our  thunder  from  the  south, 

Shall  rain  their  drift  of  bullets  on  this  town. 

Bast.  O  prudentdiscipline!  From  north  to  south? 
Austria  and  France  shoot  in  each  other's  mouth  ; 

[Aside. 
I  '11  stir  them  to  it : — Come,  away,  away  ! 

\st  Cit.  Hear  us,  great  kings :  vouchsafe  a  while 
to  stay, 
And  I  shall  show  you  peace,  and  fair-faced  league ; 
Win  you  this  city  witlout  stroke,  or  wound ; 
654 


Rescue  those  breathing  lives  to  die  in  beds, 
That  here  come  sacrifices  for  the  field  : 
Persevere  not,  but  hear  me,  mighty  kings, 

IT.  John.  Speak  on,  with  favour  ;  we  are  beni 

to  hear. 
1st  Cit.  That  daughter  there  of  Spain,  the  ladv 

Blanch, 
Is  near  to  England  :  Look  upon  the  years 
Of  Lewis  the  Dauphin,  and  that  lovely  maid  : 
If  lusty  love  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty. 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  Blanch  ? 
If  zealous  love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue, 
Where  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  Blanch  « 
If  love  ambitious  sought  a  match  of  birth. 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  lady  Blanch 
Such  as  she  is,  in  beauty,  virtue,  birth. 
Is  the  young  Dauphin  every  way  complete  ; 
If  not  complete,  0  say,  he  is  not  she  ; 
And  she  again  wants  nothing,  to  name  want. 
If  want  it  be  not,  that  she  is  not  he  : 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  as  she ; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence, 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him. 
0,  two  such  silver  currents,  when  they  join, 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in  : 
And  two  such  shores  to  two  such  streams  made  one.. 
Two  such  controlling  bounds  shall  you  be,  kings, 
To  these  two  princes,  if  you  marry  them. 
This  union  shall  do  more  than  battery  can. 
To  our  fast-closed  gates ;  for,  at  this  match. 
With  swifter  spleen  than  powder  can  enforce, 
The  mouth  of  passage  shall  we  fling  wide  ope, 
And  give  you  entrance ;  but,  without  this  match 
The  sea  enraged  is  not  half  so  deaf, 
Lions  more  confident,  mountains  and  rocks 
More  free  from  motion  ;  no,  not  death  herself 
In  mortal  fury  half  so  peremptory, 
As  we  to  keep  this  city. 

Bast.  Here  's  a  stay. 

That  shakes  the  rotten  carcase  of  old  death 
Out  of  his  rags  1     Here  's  a  large  mouth,  indeed. 
That  spits  forth  death,  and  mountains,  rocks,  nxn- 

seas; 
Talks  as  familiarly  of  roaring  lions. 
As  maids  of  thirteen  do  of  puppy-dogs  ! 
What  cannoneer  begot  this  lusty  blood  ? 
He  speaks  plain  cannon,  fire,  and  smoke,  am' 

bounce ; 
He  gives  the  bastinado  with  his  tongue ; 
Our  eai-s  are  cudgel'd  ;  not  a  word  of  his, 
But  buffets  better  thf  n  a  fist  of  France  : 


J 


KING  JOHN. 


Zounds  !  I  was  never  so  bethump'd  with  words, 
Since  I  first  call'd  my  brother's  father,  dad. 
JEli.  Son,  list  to   this  conjunction,  make  this 

match  ; 
Give  with  our  niece  a  dowry  large  enough  : 
For  by  this  knot  thou  shalt  so  surely  tie 
Thy  now  unsur'd  assurance  to  the  crown. 
That  yon  green  boy  shall  have  no  sun  to  ripe 
The  bloom  that  promiseth  a  mighty  fruit. 
I  see  a  yielding  in  the  looks  of  France  ; 
Mark,  how  they  whisper;  urge  them,  while  their 

souls 
Are  capable  of  this  ambition  : 
Lest  zeal,  now  melted,  by  the  windy  breath 
Of  soft  petitions,  pity,  and  remorse, 
Cool  and  congeal  again  to  what  it  was. 

\st  Git     Why  answer  not  the  double  majesties 
This  friendly  treaty  of  our  threaten'd  town  ? 
K.  Phi.  Speak  England  first,  that  hath  been 

forward  first 
To  speak  unto  this  city  :  What  say  you  ? 

K.   John.     K  that   the   Dauphin    there,    thy 

princely  son. 
Can  in  this  book  of  beauty  read,  I  love. 
Her  dowry  shall  weigh  equal  with  the  queen : 
For  Anjou,  and  fair  Touraine,  Maine,  Poictiers, 
And  all  that  we  upon  this  side  the  sea 
(Except  this  city  now  by  us  besieg'd,) 
Find  liable  to  our  crown  and  dignity, 
Shall  gild  her  bridal  bed ;  and  make  her  rich 
In  titles,  honours,  and  promotions, 
As  she  in  beauty,  education,  blood, 
Holds  hand  with  any  princess  of  the  world. 
K.  Phi.  What  say'st  thou,  boy  ?  look  in  the 

lady's  face. 
Lew.  I  do,  my  lord,  and  in  her  eye  I  find 
A  wonder,  or  a  wondrous  miracle, 
The  shadow  of  myself  form'd  in  her  eye  ; 
Which,  being  but  the  shadow  of  your  son. 
Becomes  a  sun,  and  makes  your  son  a  shadow  : 
r  do  protest,  I  never  lov'd  myself, 
Till  now  infixed  I  beheld  myself. 
Drawn  in  the  flattering  table  of  her  eye. 

[  Whispers  with  Blanch. 
Bast.     Drawn  in  the   flattering  table  of  her 

eye!— 
Hang'd    in    the   frowning    wrinkle    of  her 

brow ! — 
And  quarter'd  in  her  heart ! — he  doth  espy 

Himself  love's  traitor  :  This  is  pity  now. 
That   hang'd,  and  drawn,   and   quarter'd,   there 

should  be, 


In  such  a  love,  so  vile  a  lout  as  he. 

Blanch.  My  uncle's  will,  in  this  respect,  is  mine : 
If  he  see  aught  in  you,  that  makes  him  like. 
That  any  thing  he  sees,  which  moves  his  likii  g, 
I  can  with  ease  translate  it  to  my  will ; 
Or,  if  you  will,  (to  speak  more  properly,) 
I  will  enforce  it  easily  to  my  love. 
Further  I  will  not  flatter  you,  my  lord. 
That  all  I  see  in  you  is  worthy  love. 
Than  this, — that  nothing  do  I  see  in  you, 
(Though  churlish  thoughts  themselves  should  be 

your  judge,) 
That  I  can  find  should  merit  any  hate. 

K.  John.  What  say  these  young  ones  ?     What 
say  you,  my  niece  ? 

Blanch.  That  she  is  bound  in  honour  still  to  do 
What  you  in  wisdom  shall  vouchsafe  to  say. 

K.  John.  Speak  then,  prince  Dauphin  ;  can  you 
love  this  lady  ? 

Leiv.  Nay,  ask  me  if  I  can  refrain  from  love  ; 
For  I  do  love  her  most  unfeignedly. 

K.  John.  Then  I  do  give  Volquessen,'*'  Touraine, 
Maine, 
Poictiers,  and  Anjou,  these  five  provmces. 
With  her  to  thee ;  and  this  addition  more. 
Full  thirty  thousand  marks  of  English  coin. — 
Philip  of  France,  if  thou  be  pleas'd  withal. 
Command  thy  son  and  daughtf*  to  join  hands. 

K.  Phi.   It  likes   us   well ;  —  Young   princes, 
close  your  hands. 

Aust.  And  your  lips  too  ;  for,  I  am  well  assur'd, 
That  I  did  so,  when  I  was  first  assur'd. 

K.  Phi.  Now,  citizens  of  Anglers,  ope  your 
gates. 
Let  in  that  amity  which  you  have  made ; 
For  at  saint  Mary's  chapel,  presently. 
The  rites  of  marriage  shall  be  solemniz'd. — 
Is  not  the  lady  Constance  in  this  troop  ? — 
I  know,  she  is  not ;  for  this  match,  made  up. 
Her  presence  would  have  interrupted  much  : — 
Where  is  she  and  her  son  ?  tell  me,  who  knows. 

Lew.  She  is  sad  and  passionate  at  your  high- 
ness' tent. 

K.  Phi.  And,   by   my  faith,  this  league,  thai 
we  have  made. 
Will  give  her  sadness  very  little  cure. — 
Brother  of  England,  how  may  we  content 
This  widow  lady  ?  In  her  right  we  came ; 
Which  we,  God  knows,  have  turn'd  another  way 
To  our  own  vantage. 

K.  John.  We  will  heal  up  all. 

For  we'll  create  young  Arthur  duke  of  Bretagne, 

655 


ACT    III. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE   1. 


A.nd  earl  of  Richmond  ;  and  this  rich  fair  town 

We  make  him  lord  of — Call  the  lady  Constance ; 

Some  speedy  messenger  bid  her  repair 

To  our  solemnity  : — I  trust  we  shall, 

If  not  fill  up  the  measure  of  her  will, 

Yet  in  some  measure  satisfy  her  so, 

That  we  shall  stop  her  exclamation. 

Go  we,  as  well  as  haste  will  suffer  us. 

To  this  unlook'd  for  unprepared  pomp, 

l^JSxeunt  all  but  the  Bast. —  The  Citizens 
retire  from  the  walls. 
Bast.  Mad  word  !  mad  kings !  mad  composition  ! 
John,  to  stop  Arthur's  title  in  the  whole, 
Hath  willingly  departed  with  a  part : 
And  France,  (whose  armour  conscience  buckled  on ; 
Whom  zeal  and  charity  brought  to  the  field. 
As  God's  own  soldier,)  rounded  in  the  ear 
With  that  same  purpose-changer,  that  sly  devil ; 
That  broker,  that  still  breaks  the  pate  of  faith  ; 
That  daily  break-vow  ;  he  that  wins  of  all. 
Of    kings,    of    beggars,    old    men,    young   men, 

maids ; — 
Who  having  no  external  thing  to  lose 
But  the  word  maid, — cheats  the  poor  maid  of  that; 
That  smooth-faced  gentleman,  tickling  coramo- 

dity,-" 


Commodity,  the  bias  of  the  world  ; 
The  world,  who  of  itself  is  poised  well. 
Made  to  run  even,  upon  even  ground ; 
Till  this  advantage,  this  vile  drawing  bias, 
This  sway  of  motion,  this  commodity. 
Makes  it  take  head  from  all  indifferency. 
From  all  direction,  purpose,  course,  intent : 
And  this  same  bias,  this  commodity. 
This  bawd,  this  broker,  this  all-changing  word, 
Clapp'd  on  the  outward  eye  of  fickle  France, 
Hath  drawn  him  from  his  own  determin'd  aim. 
From  a  resolv'd  and  honourable  war, 
To  a  most  base  and  vile-concluded  peace. — 
And  why  rail  I  on  this  commodity  ? 
But  for  because  he  hath  not  woo'd  me  yet : 
Not  that  I  have  not  power  to  clutch  my  hand, 
When  his  fair  angels  would  salute  my  palm  : 
But  for  my  hand,  as  unattempted  yet, 
Like  a  poor  beggar,  raileth  on  the  rich. 
Well,  whiles  I  am  a  beggar,  I  will  rail. 
And  say, — there  is  no  sin,  but  to  be  rich ; 
And  being  rich,  my  virtue  then  shall  be, 
To  saj'^, — there  is  no  vice,  but  beggary : 
Since  kings  break  faith  upon  commodity. 
Gain,  be  my  lord  1  for  I  will  worship  thee ! 

[ExiU 


ACT     III, 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.    The  French  King's  Tent. 

Miter  Constance,  Arthur,  and  Salisbury. 

Const.  Gone  to  be  married  !  gone  to  swear  a 
peace  I 
False  blood  to  false  blood  join'd  !     Gone  to  be 

friends  ! 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanch  ?  and  Blanch  those  pro- 
vinces ? 
It  is  not  so  ;  thou  hast  jnisspoke,  misheard  ; 
Be  well  advis'd,  tell  o'er  thy  tale  again  : 
It  cannot  be ;  thou  dost  but  say,  't  is  so  : 
I  trust,  I  may  not  trust  thee ;  for  thy  word 
Is  but  the  vain  breath  of  a  common  man : 
Believe  me,  I  do  not  believe  thee,  man  ; 
I  have  a  king's  oath  to  the  contrary. 
Thou  shalt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me, 
For  I  am  sick,  and  capable  of  fears ; 
Oppresa'd  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  fears ; 
656 


A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears ; 
And  though  thou  now  confess,  thou  didst  but  jest,  ■ 
With  my  vex'd  spirits  I  cannot  take  a  truce, 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this  day. 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head  ? 
Why  dost  thou  look  so  sadly  on  my  son  ? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine ! 
Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum, 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  his  bounds  ? 
Be  these  sad  signs  confirmers  of  thy  words  ? 
Then  speak  again ;  not  all  thy  former  tale. 
But  this  one  word,  whether  thy  tale  be  true. 

Sal.  As  true,  as,  I  believe,  you  think  them  false, 
That  give  you  cause  to  prove  my  saying  true. 

Const.  0,  if  thou  teach  me  to  believe  this  sor- 
row. 
Teach  thou  this  sorrow  jow  to  make  me  die ,' 
And  let  belief  and  hte  encounter  so, 


Wt^mmm&wtt^-  «j  m^^ 


Hece  is  my  throne  bid    Kings  come  bow  to  it 


/f/(Vt;  JOHN  /ICTJ.SC-.I. 


ACT    ±11. 


KING  JOHN. 


SUENK   I. 


As  doth  the  fury  of  two  desperate  men, 
Which,  in  the  very  meeting,  fall,  and  die. — 
Lewis  marry  Blanch  !   O,  boy,  then  where  art  thou  ? 
France  friend  with  England  !  what  becomes  of  me  ? 
Fellow,  be  gone ;  I  cannot  brook  thy  sight ; 
This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man. 

Sal.  What  other  harm  have  I,  good  lady,  done, 
But  spoke  the  harm  that  is  by  others  done  ? 

Const.  Which  harm  within  itself  so  heinous  is, 
As  it  makes  harmful  all  that  speak  of  it. 

Arth.  I  do  beseech  you,  madam,  be  content. 

Const.  If  thou,  that  bidd'st  me  be  content,  wert 
grim, 
Ugly,  and  sland'rous  to  thy  mother's  womb, 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots,  and  sightless  stains. 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patch'd  with  foul  moles,  and  eye-offending  marks, 
I  would  not  care,  I  then  would  be  content ; 
For  then  I  should  not  love  thee ;  no,  nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair  ;  and  at  thy  birth,  dear  boy ! 
Nature  and  fortune  join'd  to  make  thee  great : 
Of  nature's  gifts  thou  may'st  with  lilies  boast. 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose  :  but  fortune,  0  ! 
She  is  corrupted,  chang'd,  and  won  from  thee ; 
She  adulterates  hourly  with  thine  uncle  John ; 
And  with  her  golden  hand  hath  pluck'd  on  France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of  sovereignty. 
And  made  his  majesty  the  bawd  to  theirs. 
France  is  a  bawd  to  fortune,  and  king  John  ; 
That  strumpet  fortune,  that  usurping  John  : — 
Tell  me,  thou  fellow,  is  not  France  forsworn  ? 
Envenom  him  with  words ;  or  get  thee  gone, 
And  leave  those  woes  alone,  which  I  alone, 
Am  bound  to  under-bear. 

Sal.  Pardon  me,  madam, 

I  may  not  go  without  you  to  the  kings. 

Const.  Thou  may'st,  thou  shalt,  I  will  not  go 
with  thee : 
I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud  ; 
For  grief  is  proud,  and  makes  his  owner  stout. 
To  me,  and  to  the  state  of  my  great  grief. 
Let  kings  assemble  ;  for  my  grief's  so  great. 
That  no  supporter  but  the  huge  firm  earth 
Can  hold  it  up :  here  I  and  sorrow  sit ; 
Ileie  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it. 

(^She  throws  herself  on  the  ground. 

I'Jnter  Kin'g  John,  King  Philip,  Lewis,  Blanch, 
Elinor,  Bastard,  Austria,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  'Tis  true,  fair  c'  .ughter ;  and  this  blessed 
dny, 

83 


Ever  in  France  shall  be  kept  festival : 
To  solemnize  this  day,  the  glorious  sun 
Stays  in  his  course,  and  plays  the  alchemist; 
Turning,  with  splendour  of  his  precious  eye, 
The  meagre  cloddy  earth  to  glittering  gold  : 
The  yearly  course,  that  brings  this  day  about. 
Shall  never  see  it  but  a  holiday. 

Const.  A  wicked  day,  and  not  a  holiday. 


\Rising, 

What  hath  this  day  deserv'd  ?  what  hath  it  done; 
That  it  in  golden  letters  should  be  set. 
Among  the  high  tides  in  the  calendar  ? 
Nay,  rather,  turn  this  day  out  of  the  week ; 
This  day  of  shame,  oppression,  perjury  : 
Or,  if  it  must  stand  still,  let  wives  with  child 
Pray,  tiiat  their  burdens  may  not  fall  this  day. 
Lest  that  their  hopes  prodigiously  be  cross'd : 
But  on  this  day,  let  seamen  fear  no  wreck ; 
No  bargains  break,  that  are  not  this  day  made :" 
This  day,  all  things  begun  come  to  ill  end  ; 
Yea,  faith  itself  to  hollow  falsehood  change ! 
K.  Phi.  By  heaven,  lady,  you  shall  have  no 

cause 
To  curse  the  fair  proceedings  of  this  day: 
Have  I  not  pawn'd  to  you  my  majesty  ? 

Const.  You  have  beguil'd  me  with  a  counterfeit, 
Resembling  majesty ;  which,  being  touch'd,  and 

tried. 
Proves  valueless  :  You  are  forsworn,  forsworn  ; 
You  came  in  arms  to  spill  mine  enemies'  blood. 
But  now  in  arms  you  strengthen  it  with  yours : 
The  grappling  vigour  and  rough  frown  of  war. 
Is  cold  in  amity  and  painted  peace, 
And  our  oppression  hath  made  up  this  league : — 
Arm,  arm,  you  heavens,  against   these   perjur'd 

kings ! 
A  widow  cries ;  be  husband  to  me,  heavens ! 
Let  not  the  hours  of  this  ungodly  day 
Wear  out  the  day  in  peace ;  but,  ere  sunset. 
Set  armed  discord  'twixt  these  perjur'd  kings ! 
Hear  me,  0,  hear  me  ! 

Aust.  Lady  Constance,  peace. 

Const.  War !  war !  no  peace !  peace  is  to  me  a 

war. 
0  Lymoges  !  0  Austria  !  thou  dost  shame 
That  bloody  spoil  :  Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou 

coward ; 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villany ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side  I 
Thou  fortune's  champion,  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety  1  thou  art  perjur'd  too,. 

651 


ACT    lit, 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE   I. 


^    i 


And  sootli'sl  Up  greatness*    What  a  foo.  art  thou, 
A  ramping  foul ;  to  brag,  atid  stamp,  and  sweal*, 
Upon  my  party  !     Thou  cold-blooded  slave, 
Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side  ? 
Been  sworn  my  soldier  ?  bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength  ? 
And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes  ? 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide !  doff  it  for  shame. 
And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 
Aust.  0,  that  a  man  should  speak  those  words 

to  me  ! 
Bast.  And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant 

limbs. 
Aust.  Thou  dar'st  not  say  so,  villain,  for  thy  life. 
Bast.  And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  those  recreant 

limbs. 
K.  John.  We  like  not  this  ;  thou  dost  forget 
thyself. 

Enter  Pandulph. 

K.  Phi.  Here  comes  the  holy  legate  of  the  pope. 

Pand.   Hail,  you   anointed  deputies   of  hea- 
ven ! — 
To  thee,  king  John,  my  holy  errand  is. 
I  Pandulph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal, 
And  from  pope  Innocent  the  legate  here, 
Do,  in  his  name,  religiously  demand, 
Why  thou  against  the  church,  our  holy  mother. 
So  wilfully  dost  spurn ;  and,  force  perforce, 
Keep  Stephen  Langton,  chosen  archbishop 
Of  Canterbury,  from  that  holy  see  ? 
This,  in  our  'foresaid  holy  father's  name, 
Pope  Innocent,  I  do  demand  of  thee. 

K.  John.  What  earthly  name  to  interrogatories. 
Can  task  the  free  breath  of  a  sacred  king  ? 
Thou  canst  not,  cardinal,  devise  a  name 
So  slight,  unworthy,  and  ridiculous. 
To  charge  me  to  an  answer,  as  the  pope. 
Tell  him  this  tale ;  and  from  the  mouth  of  Eng- 
land, 
Add  thus  much  more, — That  no  Italian  priest 
Shall  tithe  or  toll  in  our  dominions ; 
liut  as  we  under  God  are  supreme  head, 
So,  under  him,  that  great  supremacy, 
Where  we  do  reign,  we  will  alone  uphold, 
Without  the  assistance  of  a  mortal  hand  : 
So  tell  the  pope ;  all  reverence  set  apart, 
To  him,  and  his  usurp'd  authority. 

K.  Phi.  Brother  of  England,  you  blaspheme 
in  this. 

K.  John.  Though  you,  and  all    the  kings  of 
Christendom, 
668 


Are  led  so  grossly  by  this  meddling  priest, 
Dreading  the  curse  that  money  may  buy  out; 
And,  by  the  merit  of  vile  gold,  dross,  dust, 
Purchase  corrupted  pardon  of  a  man, 
Who,  in  that  sale,  sells  pardon  from  himself: 
Though  you,  and  all  the  rest,  so  grossly  led. 
This  juggling  witchcraft  with  revenue  cherish  ; 
Yet  I,  alone,  alone  do  me  oppose 
Against  the  pope,  and  count  his  friends  my  foes, 

Pand.    Then,  by  the  lawful  power  that  I  have, 
Thou  shalt  stand  curs'd,  and  excommunicate : 
And  blessed  shall  he  be,  that  doth  revolt 
From  his  allegiance  to  an  heretic ; 
And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd, 
Canonized,  and  worshipp'd  as  a  saint, 
That  takes  away  by  any  secret  course 
Thy  hateful  life. 

Const.  O,  lawful  let  it  be. 

That  I  have  room  with  Rome  to  curse  a  while ! 
Good  father  cardinal,  cry  thou,  amen. 
To  my  keen  curses  ;  for,  without  my  wrong. 
There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him  right, 

Pand.  There's  law  and  warrant,  lady,  for  my 
curse. 

Const.  And  for  mine  too ;  when  law  can  do  no 
right. 
Let  it  be  lawful,  that  law  bar  no  wrong : 
Law  cannot  give  my  child  his  kingdom  here  ; 
For  he,  that  holds  his  kingdom,  holds  the  law : 
Therefore,  since  law  itself  is  perfect  wrong, 
How  can  the  law  forbid  my  tongue  to  curse  ? 

Pand.  Philip  of  France,  on  peril  of  a  curse, 
Let  go  the  hand  of  that  arch-heretic  ; 
And  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his  head. 
Unless  he  do  submit  himself  to  Rome. 

Eli.  Look'st  thou  pale,  France  ?  do  not  let  go 
thy  hand. 

Const.  Look  to  that,  devil!    lest  that  France 
repent. 
And,  by  disjoining  hands,  hell  lose  a  soul. 

Aust.  King  Philip,  listen  to  the  cardinal. 

Bast.  And  hang  a  calf's-skin  on  his  recrean 
limbs. 

Aust.  Well,  ruflSan,  I   must   pocket  up  thes« 
wrongs. 
Because 

Bast.  Your  breeches  best  may  carry  them. 

K.  John.  Philip,  what  sny'st  thou  to  the  cardi^ 
nal? 

Const.  What  should  he  say,  but  as  the  cardi 
nal? 

Lew.  Bethink  vou,  father ;  for  the  difference 


i  I 


ACT    III. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE    I, 


Is,  purchase  of  a  lieavy  curse  from  Rome, 
Or  the  Hght  loss  of  England  for  a  friend  : 
Forego  the  easier. 

Blanch.  That 's  the  curse  of  Rome. 

Const.  0  Lewis,  stand  fast ;  the  devil  tempts 
thee  here, 
In  likeness  of  a  new  uptrimmed  bride. 

Blanch.  The  lady  Constance  speaks  not  from 
her  faith. 
But  from  her  need. 

Const.  O,  if  thou  grant  my  need, 

Which  only  lives  but  by  the  death  of  faith, 

That  need  must  needs  infer  this  principle, 

That  faith  would  live  again  by  death  of  need ; 
O,  then,  tread  down  my  need,  and  faith  mounts 

up; 
Keep  my  need  up,  and  faith  is  trodden  down. 
K.  John.  The  king  is  moved,  and  answers  not 

to  this. 
Const.   O,  be  remov'd  from  him,  and  answer 

well. 
Aust.  Do  so,  king  Philip ;  hang  no  more  in 

doubt. 
Bast.  Hang  nothing  but  a  calf 's-skin,  most  sweet 

lout. 
K.  Phi.  I  am  perplex'd,  and  know  not  what  to 

say. 
Pand.  What  can'st  thou  say,  but  will  perplex 
.   thee  more. 
If  thou  stand  excommunicate,  and  curs'd  ? 

K.  Phi,  Good  reverend  father,  make  my  person 
yours, 
And  tell  me  how  you  would  bestow  yourself. 
This  royal  hand  and  mine  are  newly  knit 
And  the  conjunction  of  our  inward  souls 
Married  in  league,  coupled  and  link'd  together 
With  all  religious  strength  of  sacred  vows  ; 
.The  latest  breath  that  gave  the  sound  of  words 
Was  deep-sworn  faith,  peace,  amity,  true  love, 
Between  our  kingdoms,  and  our  royal  selves ; 
And  even  before  this  truce,  but  new  before, — 
No  longer  than  we  well  could  wash  our  hands, 

To  clap  this  royal  bargain  up  of  peace, 

Heaven   knows,  they  were   besmear'd   and  over- 

'  stain'd 
With  slaughter's  pencil !  where  revenge  did  paint 
The  fearful  difference  of  incensed  kings  ; 
And  shall  these  hands,  so  lately  purg'd  of  blood, 
80  newly  join'd  in  love,  so  strong  in  both. 
Unyoke  this  seizure,  and  this  kind  regreet 
Play  fast  and  loose  with  faith  ?  so  jest  with  heaven 
Make  such  unconstant  children  of  ourselves, 


As  now  again  to  snatch  our  palm  from  palm  ; 

Unswear  faith  sworn  ;  and  on  the  marriage  bed 

Of  smiling  peace  to  march  a  bloody  host, 

And  make  a  riot  on  the  gentle  brow 

Of  true  sincerity  ?     0  holy  sir. 

My  reverend  father,  let  it  not  be  so  : 

Out  of  your  grace,  devise,  ordain,  impose 

Some  gentle  order ;  and  then  we  shall  be  bless'd 

To  do  your  pleasure,  and  continue  friends. 

Pand.  All  form  is  formless,  order  orderless. 
Save  what  is  opposite  to  England's  love. 
Therefore,  to  arms !  be  champion  of  our  church  ! 
Or  let  the  church,  our  mother,  breathe  her  curse, 
A  mother's  curse,  on  her  revolting  son. 
France,  thou  may'st  hold  a  serpent  by  the  tongue. 
A  cased  lion  by  the  mortal  paw, 
A  fasting  tiger  safer  by  the  tooth. 
Than  keep  in  peace  that  hand  which  thou  dost 
hold. 

K.  Phi.  I  may  disjoin  my  hand,  but  not  my 
faith. 

Pand.  So  mak'st  thou  faith  an  enemy  to  faith  • 
And,  like  a  civil  war,  sett'st  oath  to  oath. 
Thy  tongue  against  thy  tongue.      O,  let  thy  vow 
First   made  to  heaven,  first  be  to  heaven  per- 

form'd ; 
That  is,  to  be  the  champion  of  our  church ! 
What  since  thou  swor'st,  is  sworn  against  thyself, 
And  may  not  be  performed  by  thyself: 
For  that,  which  thou  hast  sworn  to  dp  amiss, 
Is  not  amiss  when  it  is  truly  done;'° 
And  being  not  done,  where  doing  tends  to  ill. 
The  truth  is  then  most  done  not  doing  it ; 
The  better  act  of  purposes  mistook 
Is,  to  mistake  again  ;  though  indirect, 
Yet  indirection  thereby  grows  direct. 
And  falsehood  falsehood  cures  ;  as  fire  cools  fire, 
Within  the  scorched  veins  of  one  new  buru'cJ. 
It  is  religion,  that  doth  make  vows  kept ; 
But  thou  hast  sworn  against  religion  ; 
By  what  thou  swear'st,  against  the  thing  thou 

swear'st ; 
And  mak'st  an  oath  the  surety  for  thy  truth 
Against  an  oath  :  The  truth  thou  art  unsure 
To  swear,  swear  only  not  to  be  forsworn  ; 
Else,  what  a  mockery  should  it  be  to  swear? 
But  thou  dost  swear  only  to  be  forsworn  ; 
And  most   forsworn,    to   keep   what   thou    dosl 

swear. 
Therefore,  thy  latter  vows,  against  thy  first. 
Is  in  thyself  rebellion  to  thyself : 
And  better  conquest  never  canst  th  ou  make, 

659 


! 


i  ! 


i  I 


H 


ACT   III. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE  ii-in. 


Than  arm  thy  constant  and  thy  nobler  parts 
Against  those  giddy  loose  suggestions : 
Upon  which  better  part  our  prayers  come  in, 
If  thou  vouchsafe  them  :  but,  if  not,  then  know, 
The  peril  of  our  curses  light  on  thee ; 
So  heavy,  as  thou  shalt  not  shake  them  off. 
But,  in  despair,  die  under  their  black  weight. 

Aust.  Rebellion,  flat  rebellion  ! 

Bast.  Will 't  not  be  ? 

Will  not  a  calf 's-skin  stop  that  mouth  of  thine  ? 

Lew.  Father,  to  arms, 

Blanch.  Upon  thy  wedding  day  ? 

Against  the  blood  that  thou  hast  married  ? 
What,  shall  our  feast  be  kept  with  slaughter'd 

men  ? 
Shall  braying  trumpets,  and  loud  churlish  drums — 
Clamours  of  hell, — be  measures  to  our  pomp  ? 

0  husband,  hear  me  ! — ah,  alack,  how  new 

Is  husband  in  my  mouth  ! — even  for  that  name. 
Which  till  this  time  my  tongue  did  ne'er  pro- 
nounce, 
Upon  my  knee  I  beg,  go  not  to  arms 
Against  mine  uncle. 

Const.  0,  upon  my  knee, 

Made  hard  with  kneeling,  1  do  pray  to  thee. 
Thou  virtuous  dauphin,  alter  not  the  doom 
Fore-thought  by  heaven. 

Blanch.  Now  shall  I  see  thy  love :  What  mo- 
tive may 
Be  stronger  with  thee  than  the  name  of  wife  ? 
Const.   That  which  upholdeth  him  that  thee 
upholds. 
His    honour  :    0,    thine    honour,    Lewis,    thine 
honour ! 
Lew.  1  muse,  your  majesty  doth  seem  so  cold, 
When  such  profound  "espects  do  pull  you  on. 
.Pand.  I  will  denounce  a  curse  upon  his  head. 
K.  Phi.  Thou  shalt  not  need  : — England,  I  '11 

fall  from  thee. 
Const.  O  fair  return  of  banish'd  majesty  ! 
^li.   O  foul  revolt  of  French  inconstancy  I 
K.  John.   France,   thou    shalt    rue   this   hour 

within  this  hour. 
Bast.  Old  time  the  clock-setter,  that  bald  sexton 
time. 
Is  it  as  he  will  ?  well  then,  France  shall  rue. 
Blanch.  The  sun 's  o'ercast  with  blood :  Fair 
day,  adieu ! 
Which  is  the  side  that  I  must  go  withal  ? 

1  am  with  both  :  each  army  hath  a  hand  ; 
And,  in  their  rage,  I  having  hold  of  both, 
They  whirl  asunder,  and  dismember  me. 

660 


Husband,  I  cannot  pray  that  thou  may'st  win ; 
Uncle,  I  needs  must  pray  that  thou  may'st  lo3e ; 
Father,  I  may  not  wish  the  fortune  thine  ; 
Grandam,  I  will  not  wish  thy  wishes  thrive : 
Whoever  wins,  on  that  side  shall  I  lose; 
Assured  loss,  before  the  match  be  play'd. 

Lew.  Lady,  with  me ;  with  me  thy  fortune  lies. 

Blanch.  There  where  my  fortune  lives,  there  my 
life  dies. 

IC.  John.  Cousin,  go  draw  our  puissance  toge 
ther. —  \Exit  Bast 

France,  I  am  burned  up  with  inflaming  wrath ; 
A  rage,  whose  heat  hath  this  condition, 
That  nothing  can  allay,  nothing  but  blood, 
The  blood,  and  dearest-valu'd  blood  of  France. 

K.  Phi.  Thy  rage  shall  burn  thee  up,  and  thou 
shalt  turn 
To  ashes,  ere  our  blood  shall  quench  that  fire : 
Look  to  thyself,  thou  art  in  jeopardy. 

K.  John.  No  more  than  he  that  threats. — To 
arms  let 's  hie  !  \Exeunt, 

SCENE  II. —  The  Same.     Plains  near  Anglers. 

Alarums,  Excursions.     Enter   the  Bastard,  with 
Austria's  Head. 

Bast.  Now,  by  my  life,  this  day  grows  Avoudrous 
hot ; 
Some  airy  devil  hovers  in  the  sky, 
And  pours  down  mischief.    Austria's  head  lie  there  • 
While  Philip  breathes. 

Enter  King  John,  Arthur,  and  Hubert. 

K.   John.    Hubert,   keep   this   boy : — Philip," 
make  up : 
My  mother  is  assailed  in  our  tent, 
And  ta'en,  I  fear. 

Bast.  My  lord,  I  rescu'd  her ; 

Her  highness  is  in  safety,  tear  you  not : 
But  on,  my  liege ;  for  veiy  little  pains 
Will  bring  this  labour  to  an  happy  end.     [Exeunt 

SCENE  III.— ne  Same. 

Alarums;  Excursions;  Retreat.  Enter  Kino 
John,  Elinor,  Arthur,  the  Bastard,  Hubert, 
and  Lords. 

K.  John.  So  shall  it  be  :  your  grace  shall  stay 
behind,  [To  En 

So  strongly  guarded. — Cousin,  look  not  sad : 

[To  Arth 
Thy  grandam  loves  thee ;  and  thy  uncle  will 


!  I 


I  I 


ACT    III. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE  rv. 


i  I 


As  dear  be  to  thee  as  thy  father  was. 

Arth.  0,  this  will  make  my  mother  die  with  griefl 

K.  John.  Cousin,  [To  the  Bast.]  away  for  Eng- 
land ;  haste  before : 
And,  ere  our  coming,  see  thou  shake  the  bags 
Of  hoarding  abbots ;  angels  imprisoned 
Set  thou  at  liberty :  the  fat  ribs  of  peace 
Must  by  the  hungry  now  be  fed  upon  : 
Use  our  commission  in  his  utmost  force. 

Bast.  Bell,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive  me 
back, 
When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on. 
I  leave  your  highness : — Grandam,  I  will  pray 
(If  ever  I  remember  to  be  holy,) 
For  your  fair  safety :  so  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Eli.  Farewell,  my  gentle  cousin. 

K.  John.  Coz,  farewell. 

[Exit  Bast. 

Eli.  Come  hither,  little  kinsman  ;  hark,  a  word. 
[She  takes  Arth.  aside. 

K.  John.  Come  hither,  Hubert.     O  my  gentle 
Hubert, 
We  owe  thee  much ;  within  this  wall  of  flesh 
There  is  a  soul,  counts  thee  her  creditor. 
And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love ; 
And,  my  good  friend,  thy  voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherished. 
Give  me  thy  hand.     I  had  a  thing  to  say, — 
But  I  will  fit  it  with  some  better  time. 
By  heaven,  Hubert,  I  am  almost  asham'd 
To  say  what  good  respect  I  have  of  thee. 

Huh.  I  am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to  say 
so  yet : 
But  thou  shalt  have ;  and  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow. 
Yet  it  shall  come,  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 
I  had  a  thing  to  say, — But  let  it  go  : 
The  sun  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day, 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 
Is  all  too  wanton,  and  too  full  of  gawds. 
To  give  me  audience : — If  the  midnight  bell 
Did,  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 
Sound  one  unto  the  drowsy  race  of  night ; 
K  this  same  were  a  church-yard  where  we  stand, 
And  thou  possessed  with  a  thousand  wrongs ; 
Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy. 
Had  bak'd  thy  blood,  and  made  it  heavy,  thick ; 
(Which,  else,  runs  tickhng  up  and  down  the  veins. 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men's  eyes, 
And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 
A  passion  hateful  to  my  purposes ;) 
Or  if  that  thou  could'st  see  me  without  eyes, 


Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a  tongue,  using  conceit  alone. 
Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  woids; 
Then,  in  despite  of  broad-eyed  watchful  day, 
I  would  into  thy  bosom  pour  my  thoughts ; 
But  ah,  I  will  not : — Yet  I  love  thee  well ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  think,  thou  lov'st  me  well. 

Huh.  So  well,  that  what  you  bid  me  undertake, 
Though  that  my  death  were  adjunct  to  my  act. 
By  heaven,  I  'd  do 't. 

K.  John.  Do  not  I  know,  thou  would'st  ? 

Good  Hubert,  Hubert,  Hubert,  throw  thine  eye 
On  yon  young  boy :  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  my  friend. 
He  is  a  very  serpent  in  my  way ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread. 
He  lies  before  me  :  Dost  thou  understand  me  ? 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 

Hub.  And  I  will  keep  him  so. 

That  he  shall  not  offend  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Death. 

Huh.  My  lord. 

K.  John.  A  grave. 

Huh.  He  shall  not  live. 

K.  John.  Enough. 

I  could  be  merry  now :  Hubert,  I  love  thee ; 
Well,  I  '11  not  say  what  I  intend  for  thee : 

Remember. Madam,  fare  you  well : 

I  '11  send  those  powers  o'er  to  your  majesty. 

Eli.  My  blessing  go  with  thee  ! 

K.  John.  For  England,  cousin : 

Hubert  shall  be  your  man,  attend  on  you 
With  all  true  duty. — On  toward  Calais,  ho ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IN.— The  Same.  TAe  French  King's  Tent. 

Enter  King  Philip,  Lewis,  Pandulph,  and 
Attendants. 

K.  Phi.  So,  by  a  roaring  tempest  on  the  flood, 
A  whole  armado  of  convented  sail 
Is  scatter'd  and  disjoin'd  from  fellowship. 

Pand.  Courage  and  comfort !  all  shall  yet  go 
well. 

K.  Phi.  What  can  go  Avell,  when  we  have  run 
so  ill  ? 
Are  we  not  beaten  ?     Is  not  Anglers  lost  ? 
Arthur  ta'en  prisoner  ?  divers  dear  friends  slain  ? 
And  bloody  England  into  England  gone, 
O'erbearing  interruption,  spite  of  France  ? 

Lew.  What  he  hath  won,  that  hath  he  fortified; 
So  hot  a  speed  with  such  advice  dispos'd. 
Such  temperate  order  in  so  fierce  a  cause, 

661 


M 


I  ! 


AOT   III. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE    IV. 


Dotli  want  example :  Who  hath  read,  or  heard, 
Of  any  kindred  action  like  to  this  ? 

K.  Phi.  Well  could  I  bear  that  England  had 
this  praise, 
So  we  could  find  some  pattern  of  our  shame. 

Enter  Constance. 

Look,  who  comes  here !  a  grave  unto  a  soul ; 
Holding  the  eternal  spirit,  against  her  will. 
In  the  vile  prison  of  aflSicted  breath : — 
I  pr'ythee,  lady,  go  away  with  me. 

Const.    Lo,  now !    now  see  the  issue  of  your 
peace ! 

K.  Phi.  Patience,  good  lady !  comfort,  gentle 
Constance ! 

Const.  No,  I  defy  all  counsel,  all  redress. 
But  that  which  ends  all  counsel,  true  redress. 
Death,  death  : — O  amiable  lovely  death  ! 
Thou  odoriferous  stench !  sound  rottenness ! 
Arise  forth  from  the  couch  of  lasting  night. 
Thou  hate  and  terror  to  prosperity. 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  detestable  bones ; 
And  put  my  eye-balls  in  thy  vanity  brows ; 
And  ring  these  fingers  with  thy  household  worms ; 
And  stop  this  gap  of  breath  with  fulsome  dust. 
And  be  a  carrion  monster  like  thyself: 
Come,  grin  on  me ;  and  I  will  think  thou  smil'st. 
And  buss  thee  as  thy  wife !  Misery's  love, 
0,  come  to  me  ! 

K.  Phi.  O  fair  affliction,  peace. 

Const.  No,   no,  I  will   not,   having  breath   to 
cry: — 
0,  that  my  tongue  were  in  the  thunder's  mouth  1 
Then  with  a  passion  would  I  shake  the  world ; 
And  rouse  from  sleep  that  fell  anatomy, 
Which  cannot  hear  a  lady's  fe«ble  voice, 
Which  scorns  a  modern  invocation. 

Pand.  Lady,  you  utter  madness,  and  not  son-ow. 

Const.  Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me  so ; 
I  am  not  mad :  this  hair  I  tear,  is  mine ; 
My  name  is  Constance ;  I  was  Geffrey's  wife ; 
Young  Arthur  is  my  son,  and  he  is  lost : 
I  am  not  mad ; — I  would  to  heaven  I  were. 
For  then,  't  is  like  I  should  forget  myself: 
0,  if  I  could,  what  grief  should  I  forget ! 
Preach  some  philosophy  to  make  me  mad, 
And  thou  shalt  be  canoniz'd,  cardinal ; 
For,  being  not  mad,  but  sensible  of  grief, 
My  reasonable  part  produces  reason 
How  I  may  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes, 
And  teaches  me  to  kill  or  hang  myself; 
If  I  were  mad,  I  should  forget  my  son ; 

662 


Or  madly  think,  a  babe  of  clouts  were  he. 
I  am  not  mad  ;  too  well,  too  well  I  feel 
The  different  plague  of  each  calamity. 

K.  Phi.  Bind  up  those  tresses :  O,  what  love  1 
note 
In  the  fair  multitude  of  those  her  bail's ! 
Where  but  by  chance  a  silrer  drop  hath  fallen, 
Even  to  that  drop  ten  thousand  wiry  friends 
Do  glow  themselves  in  sociable  grief; 
Like  true,  inseparable,  faithful  loves, 
Stickiijg  together  in  calamity. 

Const.  To  England,  if  you  will.*' 

K.  Phi.  Bind  up  your  haira 

Const.  Yes,  that  I  will :  And  wherefore  will   I 
doit? 
I  tore  them  from  their  bonds ;  and  cried  aloud, 
"  0  that  these  hands  could  so  redeem  my  son, 
As  they  have  given  these  hairs  their  liberty  !" 
But  now  I  envy  at  their  liberty, 
And  will  again  commit  them  to  their  bonds, 

Because  my  poor  child  is  a  prisoner. 

And,  father  cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say. 
That  we  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven 
If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again ; 
For,  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 
To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 
There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born. 
But  now  v/ill  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud, 
And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek. 
And  he  will  look  as  hollow  as  a  ghost ; 
As  dim  and  meagre  as  an  ague's  fit ; 
And  so  he  '11  die  ;  and,  rising  so  again. 
When  I  shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 
I  shall  not  know  him  :  therefore  never,  never 
Must  I  behold  ray  pretty  Arthur  more. 

Pand.  You  hold  too  heinous  a  respect  of  grief 

Const.  He  talks  to  me,  that  never  had  a  son. 

K.  Phi.  You  are  as  fond  of  grief,  as  of  youi 
child. 

Const.  Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent 
child, 
Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me ; 
Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words. 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form ; 
Then,  have  I  reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 
Fare  you  well :  had  you  such  a  loss  as  I, 
I  could  give  better  comfort  than  you  do. — 
I  will  not  keep  this  form  upon  my  head, 

\Tcaring  off  her  head-dreat 
When  there  is  such  disorder  in  my  wit. 
0  lord !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  mv  fair  son  ! 


ACT   111. 


KING  JOHN, 


SCEKfi  tr. 


My  Kfe,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world  ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure  !    [Exit. 

K.  Phi.  I  fear  some  outrage,  and  I  'II  follow 
her.  \Exit. 

Lew.  There 's  nothing  in  this  world  can  make 
me  joy  : 
Life  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale, 
Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man  ; 
And  bitter  shame  hath  spoil'd  the  sweet  world's 

taste, 
That  it  yields  naught,  but  shame  and  bitterness. 

Pand.  Before  the  curing  of  a  strong  disease, 
Even  in  the  instant  of  repair  and  health, 
The  fit  is  strongest ;  evils,  that  take  leave, 
On  their  departure  most  of  all  show  evil  : 
What  have  you  lost  by  losing  of  this  day  ? 

Lew.  All  days  of  glory,  joy,  and  happiness. 

Pand.  If  you  have  won  it,  certainly,  you  had. 
No,  no  ;  when  fortune  means  to  men  most  good. 
She  looks  upon  them  with  a  threatening  eye. 
'Tis  strange,  to  think  how  much  king  John  hath  lost 
In  this  which  he  accounts  so  clearly  won  : 
Are  not  you  griev'd,  that  Arthur  is  his  prisoner  ? 

Lew.  As  heartily,  as  he  is  glad  he  hath  him. 

Pand.  Your  mind  is  all  as  youthful  as  your 
blood. 
Now  hear  me  speak,  with  a  prophetic  spirit ; 
For  even  the  breath  of  what  I  mean  to  speak 
Shall  blow  each  dust,  each  straw,  each'  little  rub. 
Out  of  the  path  which  shall  directly  lead 
Thy   foot  to  England's    thi  ne ;    and,    therefore, 

mark. 
John  hath  seiz'd  Arthur  ;    and  it  cannot  be, 
That,  whiles  warm  life  plays  in  that  infant's  veins. 
The  misplac'd  John  should  entertain  an  hour. 
One  minute,  nay,  one  quiet  breath  of  rest : 
A  sceptre,  snatch'd  with  an  unruly  hand. 
Must  be  as  boisterously  maintain'd  as  gain'd  : 
And  he,  that  stands  upon  a  slippery  place. 
Makes  nice  of  no  vile  hold  to  stay  him  up : 
That  John  may  stand,  then  Arthur  needs  must  fall ; 
So  be  it,  for  it  cannot  be  but  so. 

Lew.  But  what  shall  I  gain  by  young  Arthur's 
fall? 

Pand.  You,  in  the  right  of  lady  Blanch  your 
wife. 


May  then  make  all  the  claim  that  Arthur  did. 

Lew.  And  lose  it,  life  and  all,  as  Arthur  did. 

Pand.  How  green  are  you,  and  fresh  in  this  old 
world  ! 
John  lays  you  plots  f  *  the  times  conspire  with  you ; 
For  he,  that  steeps  his  safety  in  true  blood, 
Shall  find  but  bloody  safety,  and  untrue. 
This  act,  so  evilly  born,  shall  cool  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people,  and  j*eeze  up  their  zeal ; 
That  none  so  small  advantage  shall  step  forth, 
To  check  his  reign,  but  they  will  cherish  it : 
No  natural  exhalation  in  the  sky, 
No  scape  of  nature,  no  distemper'd  day. 
No  common  wind,  no  customed  event, 
But  they  will  pluck  away  his  natural  cause, 
x\nd  call  them  meteors,  prodigies,  and  signs. 
Abortives,  presages,  and  tongues  of  heaven, 
Plainly  denouncing  vengeance  upon  John. 

Lew.  May  be,  he  will  not  touch  young  Arthur's 
life. 
But  hold  himself  safe  in  his  prisonment. 

Pand.  0,    sir,    when    he   shall    hear    of  your 
approach. 
If  that  young  Arthur  be  not  gone  already 
Eevn  at  that  news  he  dies :    and  then  the  hearts 
Of  all  his  people  shall  revolt  from  him. 
And  kiss  the  lips  of  unacquainted  change  ; 
And  pick  strong  matter  of  revolt,  and  wrath. 
Out  of  the  bloody  fingers'  ends  of  John. 
Methinks,  I  see  this  hurly  all  on  foot : 
And,  O,  what  better  matter  breeds  for  you, 
Than  I  have  nam'd  ! — The  bastard  Faulconbridge 
Is  now  in  England,  ransacking  the  church, 
Oftending  charity  :  If  but  a  dozen  French 
Were  there  in  arms,  they  would  be  as  a  call 
To  train  ten  thousand  English  to  their  side ; 
Or,  as  a  Httle  snow,  tumbled  about. 
Anon  becomes  a  mountain.     0  noble  Dauphin, 
Go  with  me  to  the  king:  'Tis  wonderful, 
What  may  be  wrought  out  of  their  discontent : 
Now  that  their  souls  are  topfull  of  offence. 
For  England  go ;  I  will  whet  on  the  king. 

Lew.  Strong  reasons  make  strong  actions :  Lei 
us  go; 
If  you  say,  ay,  the  king  will  not  say,  no. 


!  I 


[Exeunt 


663 


ACT  IV. 


KING  JOHN. 


6CENK  1. 


ACT   IV 


SCENE  I.— Northampton.^^ 
Castle. 


A  Room  in   the 


Enter  Hubert  and  Two  Attendants. 

Huh.  Heat  me  these  irons  hot ;  and,  look  thou 
stand 
Within  the  arras  ;  when  I  strike  my  foot 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  ground,  rush  forth  : 
And  bind  the  boy,  which  you  shall  find  with  me, 
Fast  to  the  chair  :    be  heedful  :  hence,  and  watch. 
\st  Attend.  I  hope,  your  warrant  will  bear  out 

the  deed. 
Huh.  Uncleanly  scruples  !  Fear  not  you  :  look 
to  't. —  [Exeunt  Attend. 

Young  lad,  come  forth  ;  I  have  to  say  with  you. 

Enter  Arthur. 

Arth.  Good  morrow,  Hubert. 

Huh.  Good  morrow,  little  prince. 

Arth.  As  little  prince  (having  so  great  a  title 
To  be  more  prince,)  as  may  be. — You  are  sad. 

Huh.  Indeed,  I  have  been  merrier. 

Arth.  Mercy  on  me ! 

Methinks,  nobody  should  be  sad  but  I : 
Yet,  I  remember,  when  I  was  in  France, 
Young  gentlemen  would  be  as  sad  as  night. 
Only  for  wantonness.     By  my  Christendom, 
So  I  were  out  of  prison,  and  kept  sheep, 
I  should  be  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long ; 
And  so  I  would  be  here,  but  that  I  doubt 
My  uncle  practises  more  harm  to  me  : 
He  is  afraid  of  me,  and  I  of  him  : 
Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  Geffrey's  son  ? 
No,  indeed,  is 't  not :  And  I  would  to  heaven, 
I  were  your  son,  so  you  would  love  me,  Hubert 

Huh.  If  I  talk  to  him,  with  his  innocent  prate 
He  will  awake  my  mercy,  which  lies  dead  : 
Therefore  I  will  be  sudden,  and  despatch.  [Aside. 

Arth.  Are  you  sick,  Hubert  ?  you  look  pale  to- 
day : 
In  sooth,  I  would  you  were  a  little  sick ; 
That  I  might  sit  all  night,  and  watch  with  you  : 
I  warrant,  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me. 

Huh.  His   words   do   take   possession   of  my 
bosom. — 
Read  here,  young  Arthur,         [Showing  a  Paper. 
How  now,  foolish  rheum  !  [Aside. 

664 


Turning  dispiteous  torture  out  of  door  ! 
I  must  be  brief ;   lest  resolution  drop 

Out  at  mine  eyes,  in  tender  womanish  tears. 

Can  you  not  read  it  ?  is  it  not  fair  writ  ? 

Arth.  Too  fairly,  Hubert,  for  so  foul  effect : 
Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  mine  eyes 

Hub.  Young  boy,  I  must. 

Arth.  And  will  you  ? 

Huh.  And  I  will. 

Arth.  Have  you  the  heart  ?     When  your  head 
did  but  ache, 
I  knit  my  handkerchief  about  your  brows, 
(The  best  I  had,  a  princess  wrought  it  me,) 
And  I  did  never  ask  it  you  again  : 
And  with  my  hand  at  midnight  held  your  head  ; 
And,  like  the  v/atchful  minutes  to  the  hour, 
Still  and  anon  cheer'd  up  the  heavy  time ; 
Saying,  ¥r'hat  lack  you?  and,  Where  liesyour  grief! 
Or,  What  good  iove  may  I  perform  for  you  ? 
Many  a  poo;-  man's  son  v/oiild  have  lain  still, 
x\nd  ne'er  have  spoke  a  loving  word  to  you ; 
But  you  at  your  sick  service  had  a  prince. 
Nay,  you  may  think  my  love  was  crafty  love. 
And  call  it,  cunning  :  Do,  an  if  you  will : 
If  heaven  be  pleas'd  that  you  must  use  me  ill. 
Why,  then  you  must. — Will  you  put  out  mine  eyes  ( 
These  eyes,  that  never  did,  nor  never  shall, 
So  much  as  frown  on  you  ? 

Huh.  I  have  sworn  to  do  it ; 

And  with  hot  irons  must  I  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  Ah,  none,  but  in  this  iron  age,  would  do  it. 
The  iron  of  itself,  though  heat  red-hot, 
Approaching  near  these  eyes,  would  drink  my  tears, 
And  quench  his  fiery  indignation. 
Even  in  the  matter  of  mine  innocence : 
Nay,  after  that,  consume  away  in  rust, 
But  for  containing  fire  to  harm  mine  eye. 
Are  you  more  stubborn-hard  than  haramer'd  iron  ? 
An  if  an  angel  should  have  come  to  me. 
And  told  me  Hubert  should  put  out  mine  eyes, 
I  would  not  have  believ'd  no  tongue  but  Hubert's, 

Hub.  Come  forth.  [Stamps 

He-enter  Attendants,  with  Cord,  Irons,  <&c. 

Do  as  I  bid  you  do. 

Arth.  O  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me !  mv  eves 
are  out. 


ACT  IV. 


KING  JOHN. 


Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

Huh.  Give  me  the  iron,  I  say,  and  bind  him 
here. 

Arth.  Alas,  what  need  you  be  so  boist'rous- 
roiigh  ? 
I.  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 
For  heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound  ! 
Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert !  drive  these  men  away, 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  as  a  lamb : 
I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word. 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly  : 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I  '11  forgive  you. 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

Hub.  Go,  stand  within  ;  let  me  alone  with  him. 

\st  Attend.  I  am  best  pleas'd  to  be  from  such  a 
deed.  [Exeunt  Attend. 

Arth.  Alas  !  I  then  have  chid  away  ray  friend  ; 
He  hath  a  stern  look,  but  a  gentle  heart : — 
Let  him  come  back,  that  his  compassion  may 
Give  life  to  yours. 

Huh.  Come,  boy,  prepare  yourself. 

Arth.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Huh.  None,  but  to  lose  your  eyes. 

Arth.  O  heaven  ! — that  there  were  but  a  mote 
in  yours, 
A  grain,  a  dust,  a  gnat,  a  wand'ring  hair. 
Any  annoyance  in  that  precious  sense ! 
Then,  feeling  what  small    things   are  boist'rous 

there, 
Your  vile  intent  must  needs  seem  horrible. 

Huh.  Is  this  your  promise  ?  go  to,  hold  your 
tongue. 

Arth.   Hubert,   the   utterance   of  a  brace   of 
tongues 
Must  needs  want  pleading  for  a  pair  of  eyes : 
Let  me  not  hold  ray  tongue ;  let  me  not,  Hubert ! 
Or,  Hubert,  if  you  will,  cut  out  my  tongue. 
So  I  may  keep  mine  eyes ;  O,  spare  mine  eyes ; 
Though  to  no  use,  but  still  to  look  on  you  ! 
Lo,  by  my  troth,  the  instrument  is  cold. 
And  would  not  harm  me. 

Hub.  I  can  heat  it,  boy. 

Arth.  No,  in  good  sooth  ;  the  fire  is  dead  with 
grief, 
Being  create  for  comfort,  to  be  us'd 
In  undeserved  extremes :  See  else  yourself ; 
There  is  no  malice  in  this  burning  coal ; 
The  breath  of  heaven  hath  blown  his  spirit  out, 
A.nd  strewed  repentant  ashes  on  his  head. 

Hnh.  But  with  my  breath  I  can  revive  it,  boy. 

Arth.  And  if  you  do,  you  will  but  make  it 
blush, 

S4 


And  glow  with  shame  of  your  proceedings,  Hu- 
bert : 
Nay,  it,  perchance,  will  sparkle  in  your  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  dog  that  is  compell'd  to  fight. 
Snatch  at  his  master  that  doth  tarre  him  on. 
All  things,  that  you  should  use  to  do  me  wrong, 
Deny  their  oflSce  :  only  you  do  lack 
That  mercy  which  fierce  fire,  and  iron,  extends, 
Creatures  of  note,  for  mercy-lacking  uses. 

Huh.   Well,  see  to  live ;  I  will  not  touch  thine 
eyes 
For  all  the  treasure  that  thine  uncle  owes : 
Yet  am  I  sworn,  and  I  did  purpose,  boy, 
With  this  same  very  iron  to  burn  them  out. 

Arth.  O,  now  you  look  like  Hubert !  all  this 
while 
You  were  disguised. 

Hub.  Peace :  no  more.     Adieu  ; 

Your  iracle  must  not  know  but  you  are  dead  : 
I  '11  fill  these  dogged  spies  with  false  reports. 
And,  pretty  child,  sleep  doubtless,  and  secure. 
That  Hubert,  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  world. 
Will  not  off'end  thee. 

Arth.  0  heaven  ! — I  thank  you,  Hubert 

Huh.  Silence  ;  no  raore :  Go  closely  in  with  mc  ; 
Much  danger  do  I  undergo  for  thee.        \_Exeiint 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     A  Room  of  State  in 
the  Palace. 

Enter  King  John,  crowned ;  Pembroke,  Salis- 
bury, and  other  Lords.  The  King  takes  his 
State. 

K.  John.  Here  once  again  we  sit,  once  again 
crovYu'd,'* 
And  look'd  upon,  I  hope,  with  cheerful,  eyes. 

Pern.  This  once  again,  but  that  your  highness 
pleas'd. 
Was  once  superfluous :  you  were  crown'd  before, 
And  that  high  royalty  was  ne'er  pluck'd  off; 
The  faiths  of  men  ne'er  stained  with  revolt ; 
Fresh  expectation  troubled  not  the  land, 
With  any  long'd-for  change,  or  better  statc- 

Sal.    Therefore,  to  be  possess'd  with  double 
pomp. 
To  guard  a  title  that  was  rich  before, 
To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lily, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 
To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 
Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 
To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 
Is  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess. 

665 


ACT   IV. 


KING  JOHN. 


8CENK    n. 


Pem.  But  that  yoar  royal  pleasure  must  be 
done, 
This  act  is  as  an  ancient  tale  new  told ; 
And,  in  the  last  repeating,  troublesome. 
Being  urged  at  a  time  unseasonable. 

Sal.  In  this,  the  antique  ancl  well-noted  face 
Of  plain  old  form  is  much  disfigured  : 
And,  like  a  shifted  wind  unto  a  sail, 
ft  makes  the  course  of  thoughts  to  fetch  about ; 
Startles  and  frights  consideration ; 
Makes  sound  opinion  sick,  and  truth  suspected, 
For  putting  on  bo  new  a  fashion'd  robe. 

Pem.  When  workmen  strive  to  do  better  than 
well. 
They  do  confound  their  skill  in  covetousness : 
And,  oftentimes,  excusing  of  a  fault, 
Doth  make  the  fault  the  worse  by  the  excuse ; 
As  patches,  set  upon  a  little  breach, 
Discredit  more  in  hiding  of  the  fault, 
Than  did  the  fault  before  it  was  so  patch'd. 
Sal.  To    this    effect,   before   you    were    new- 
crown'd. 
We    breath'd   our  counsel :    but  it  pleas'd  your 

highness 
To  overbear  it ;  and  we  are  all  well  pleas'd  ; 
Since  all  and  every  part  of  vv'hat  we  would. 
Doth  make  a  stand  at  what  your  highness  will. 
K.  John.  Some  reasons  of  this  double  corona- 
tion 
I  have  possess'd  you  with,  and  think  them  strong ; 
And  more,  more  strong,  (when  lesser  is  my  fear,) 
I  shall  indue  you  with  :  Mean  time,  but  ask 
What  you  would  have  reform'd,  that  is  not  well ; 
And  well  shall  you  perceive,  how  willingly 
I  will  both  hear  and  grant  you  your  requests. 
Pem.  Then  I,  (as  one  that  am  the  tongue  of 
these. 
To  sound  the  purposes  of  all  their  hearts,) 
Both  for  myself  and  them,  (but  chief  of  all. 
Your  safety,  for  the  which  myself  and  them 
Bend  their  best  studies,)  heartily  request 
The  enfranchisement  of  Arthur ;  whose  restraint 
Doth  move  the  murmuring  lips  of  discontent 
To  break  into  this  dangerous  argument, — 
If,  what  in  rest  you  have,  in  right  you  hold. 
Why  should  your  fears,  (which,  as  they  say,  at- 
tend 
The  steps  of  wrong,)  then  move  you  to  mew  up 
Your  tender  kinsman,  and  to  ehoke  his  days 
With  barbarous  ignorance,  and  deny  his  youth 
The  rich  advantage  of  good  exercise  ? 
That  the  time's  enemies  may  not  have  this 
666 


To  grace  occasions,  let  it  be  our  suit, 
That  you  have  bid  us  ask  his  liberty ; 
Which  for  our  goods  we  do  no  further  ask. 
That  whereupon  our  weal,  on  you  depending, 
Counts  it  your  weal,  he  have  his  liberty. 

K.  John.  Let  it  be  so  ;  I  do  commit  his  youth 

Enter  Hubert. 

To  your  direction.— Hubert,  what  news  with  you  ? 

Pem.  This  is  the  man  should  do  the  bloody 
deed; 
He  show'd  his  warrant  to  a  friend  of  mine  : 
The  image  of  a  wicked,  heinous  fault 
Lives  in  his  eye  ;  that  close  aspect  of  his 
Does  show  the  mood  of  a  much-troubled  breast, 
And  I  do  fearfully  believe,  'tis  done, 
What  we  so  fear'd  he  had  a  charge  to  do. 

Sal.  The  colour  of  the  king  doth  come  and  ^o 
Between  his  purpose  and  his  conscience. 
Like  heralds  'twixt  two  dreadful  battles  set ; 
His  passion  is  so  ripe,  it  needs  must  break. 

Pem.  And   when  it  breaks,  I  fear,  will  issue 
thence 
The  foul  corruption  of  a  sweet  child's  death. 

K.  John.  We   cannot  hold   mortality's  strong 
hand : — 
Good  lords,  although  my  will  to  give  is  living. 
The  suit  Avhich  you  demand  is  gone  and  dead ; 
He  tells  us,  Arthur  is  deceas'd  to-night. 

Sal.   Indeed,  we  fear'd  his  sickness  was  past 
cure. 

Pem.  Indeed,  we  heard  how  near  his  death  he 
was. 
Before  the  child  himself  felt  he  was  sick : 
This  must  be  answer'd,  either  here  or  hence. 

K.  John.  Why  do  you  bend  such  solemn  brows 
on  me  ? 
Think  you,  I  bear  the  shears  of  destiny  ? 
Have  I  commandment  on  the  pulse  of  life  ? 

Sal.  It  is  aj^parent  foul  play  ;  and  'tis  shame, 
That  greatness  should  so  grossly  offer  it : 
So  thrive  it  in  your  game  !  and  so  farewell. 

Pem.    Stay  yet,  lord  Salisbury ;    I  '11  go  with 
thee. 
And  find  the  inheritance  of  this  poor  child, 
His  little  kingdom  of  a  forced  grave. 
That  blood,  which  ow'd  the  breath  of  all  this  isle, 
Three  foot  of  it  doth  hold  :  Bad  world  the  while 
This  must  not  be  thus  borne  :  this  will  break  out 
To  all  our  sorrows,  and  ere  long,  I  doubt. 

[^Exeunt  Lords. 

K.  John.  They  burn  in  ndignation  ;  I  repent ; 


ACT   IV. 


KING  JOHN. 


SOKNB  n. 


There  is  no  sure  foundation  set  on  blood  ; 
No  certain  life  acliiev'd  by  others'  death.— 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

A  fearful  eye  thou  hast :  Where  is  that  blood, 
That  I  have  seen  inhabit  in  those  cheeks  ? 
So  foul  a  sky  clears  not  without  a  storm : 
Pour  down  thy  weather : — How  goes  all  in  France  ? 

Mess.  From  France  to  England. — Never  such  a 
power 
For  any  foreign  preparation, 
Was  levied  in  the  body  of  a  land  ! 
The  copy  of  your  speed  is  learn'd  by  them ; 
For,  when  you  should  be  told  they  do  prepare. 
The  tidings  come,  that  they  are  all  arriv'd. 

K.  John.  O,  where  hath  our  intelligence  been 
drunk  ? 
Where  hath  it  slept  ?  Where  is  my  mother's  care  ? 
That  such  an  army  could  be  drawn  in  France, 
And  she  not  hear  of  it  ? 

Mess.  My  liege,  her  ear 

Is  stopp'd  with  dust ;  the  first  of  April,  died 
Your  nobl"  'tiother :  And,  as  I  hear,  my  lord. 
The  lady  Constance  in  a  frenzy  died 
Three  days  before :  but  this  from  rumoi-'s  tongue 
I  idly  heard;  if  true  or  false,  I  know  not. 

K.  John.  Withhold  thy  speed,  dreadful  occasion  ! 
O,  make  a  league  with  me,  till  I  have  pleas'd 
My  discontented  peers  ! — What !  mother  dead  ? 
How  wildly  then  walks  my  estate  in  France ! — 
Under  whose  conduct  came  those  powers  of  France, 
That  thou  for  truth  giv'st  out,  are  landed  here  ? 

Mess.  Under  the  Dauphin. 

Enter  the  Bastard  and  Peter  of  Pomfret„ 

K.  John.  .      Thou  hast  made  me  giddy 

With  these  ill  tidings. — Now,  what  says  the  world 
To  your  proceedings  ?  do  not  seek  to  stuff 
My  head  with  more  ill  news,  for  it  is  full. 

Bast.  But  if  you  be  afeard  to  hear  the  worst, 
Then  let  the  worst,  unheard,  fall  on  your  head. 

K.  John.  Bear  with  me,  cousin  ;  for  I  was  amaz'd 
Under  the  tide :  but  now  I  breathe  again 
Aloft  the  flood ;  and  can  give  audience 
To  any  tongue,  speak  it  of  what  it  will. 

Bast.  How  I  have  sped  among  the  clergymen. 
The  sums  I  have  collected  shall  express. 
But,  as  I  travelled  hither  through  the  land, 
I  find  the  people  strangely  fantasied ; 
Possess'd  with  rumors,  full  of  idle  dreams ; 
Not  knowing  what  they  fear,  but  full  of  fear : 
And  here 's  a  prophet"  that  I  brought  with  me 


From  forth  the  streets  of  Pomfret,  whom  I  found 
With  many  hundreds  treading  on  his  heels  ; 
To  whom  he  sung,  in  rude  harsh-sounding  I'liymes, 
That,  ere  the  next  Ascension-day  at  noon. 
Your  highness  should  deliver  up  your  crown. 

K.  John.  Thou  idle  dreamer,  wherefore  didst 
thou  so? 

Peter.  Foreknowing  that  the  truth  will  fall  out 
so. 

K.  John.  Hubert,  away  with  him ;  imprison  him 
And  on  that  day,  at  noon,  whereon,  he  says, 
I  shall  yield  up  my  crown,  let  him  be  hang'd : 
Dehver  him  to  safety,  and  return. 
For  I  must  use  thee. — O  my  gentle  cousin, 

[Exit  Hub.  ivith  Peter 
Hear'st  thou  the  news  abroad,  who  are  arriv'd  ? 

Bast.  The  French,  my  lord ;  men's  mouths  are 
full  of  it : 
Besides,  I  met  lord  Bigot,  and  lord  Salisbury, 
(With  eyes  as  red  as  new-enkindled  fire,) 
And  others  more,  going  to  seek  the  grave 
Of  Arthur,  who,  they  say,  is  kill'd  to-night 
On  your  suggestion. 

K.  John.  Gentle  kinsman,  go. 

And  thrust  thyself  into  their  companies  : 
I  have  a  way  to  win  their  loves  again  ; 
Bring  them  before  me. 

Bast.  I  will  seek  them  out. 

K.  John.    Nay,  but  make  haste :    the  better 

foot  before. 

0,  let  me  have  no  subject  enemies. 

When  adverse  foreigners  affright  my  towns 

With  dreadful  pomp  of  stout  invasion  ! — 

Be  Mercury,  set  feathers  to  thy  heels ; 

And  fly,  like  thought,  from  them  to  me  again. 

Bast.  The  spirit  of  the  time  shall  teach  me 
speed.  \Exit. 

K.  John.  Spoke  like  a  spriteful  noble  gentle- 
man.— 
Go  after  him  ;  for  he,  perhaps,  shall  need 
Some  messenger  betwixt  me  and  the  peers ; 
And  be  thou  he. 

Mess.         With  all  my  heart,  my  liege.  \ISvit. 

K.  John.  My  mother  dead  ! 

Re-enter  Hubert. 

Hub.  My  lord,  they  say,  five  moons  were  seen 
to-night : 
Four  fixed  ;  and  the  fifth  did  whirl  about 
The  other  four,  in  wond'rous  motion. 
K.  John.  Five  moons  ? 

Huh.         Old  men,  and  beldams,  in  the  streets 

667 


ACT    IV. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE   m. 


Do  prophesy  upon  it  dangerously : 

Young  Arthur's  death  is  common  in  their  mouths : 

And  when  they  talk  of  him,  they  shake  their  heads, 

And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear ; 

And  he  that  speaks  doth  gripe  the  hearer's  wrist ; 

Whilst  he  that  hears  makes  fearful  action. 

With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling  eyes. 

I  saw  a  smith  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus. 

And  whilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool. 

With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news ; 

Who,  with  his  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand. 

Standing  on  slippers,  (which  his  nimble  haste 

Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet,) 

Told  of  a  many  thousand  warlike  French, 

That  were  embatteled  and  rank'd  in  Kent : 

Another  lean  unwash'd  artificer 

Cuts  off  his  tale,  and  talks  of  Arthur's  death. 

K.  John.  Why  seek'st  thou  to  possess  me  with 
these  fears  ? 
Why  urgest  thou  so  oft  young  Arthur's  death  ? 
Thy  hand  hath  murder'd  him  :  I  had  mighty  cause 
To  wish  him  dead,  but  thou  hadst  none  to  kill  him. 

Huh.  Had  none,  ray  lord !  why,  did  you  not 
provoke  me  ? 

K.  John.  It  is  the  curse  of  kings,  to  be  attended 
By  slaves,  that  take  their  humors  for  a  warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  Hfe : 
And,  on  the  winking  of  authority. 
To  undei-stand  a  law ;  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  dangerous  majesty,  when,  perchance,  it  frowns 
More  upon  humor  than  advis'd  respect.^® 

Hub.  Here  is  your  hand  and  seal  for  what  I  did. 

K.  John.    O,    when   the   last   account  'twixt 
heaven  and  earth 
Is  to  be  made,  then  shall  this  hand  and  seal 
Witness  against  us  to  damnation  ! 
How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds. 
Makes  ill  deeds  done !  Hadest  not  thou  been  by, 
A  fellow  by  the  hand  of  nature  mark'd. 
Quoted,  and  sign'd,  to  do  a  deed  of  shame. 
This  murder  had  not  come  into  my  mind : 
But,  taking  note  of  thy  abhorr'd  aspect, 
Finding  thee  fit  for  bloody  villainy. 
Apt,  liable,  to  be  employ'd  in  danger, 
I  faintly  broke  with  thee  of  Arthur's  death ; 
And  thou,  to  be  endeared  to  a  king, 
Made  it  no  conscience  to  destroy  a  prince. 

Huh.  My  lord, 

K.  John.  Hadst  thou  but  shook  thy  head,  or 
made  a  pause, 
When  I  spake  darkly  what  I  purposed  ; 
Or  turn'd  an  eye  of  doubt  upon  my  face, 
668 


As  bid  me  tell  my  tale  in  express  words ; 

Deep  shame  had   struck   me   dumb,   made   me 

break  off. 
And   those  thy  fears  might  have  wrought  feai-s 

in  me : 
But  thou  didst  understand  me  by  my  signs. 
And  didst  in  signs  again  parley  with  sin, 
Yea,  without  stop,  didst  let  thy  heart  consent, 
And,  consequently,  thy  rude  hand  to  act 
The  deed,  which  both  our  tongues  held  vile  to 

name. — 
Out  of  my  sight,  and  never  see  me  more ! 
My  nobles  leave  me ;  and  my  state  is  brav'd. 
Even  at  my  gates,  with  ranks  of  foreign  powers : 
Nay,  in  the  body  of  this  fleshly  land, 
This  kingdom,  this  confine  of  blood  and  breath, 
Hostility  and  civil  tumult  reigns 
Between  ray  conscience,  and  my  cousin's  death. 

Huh.  Arm  you  against  your  other  enemies, 
I  'II  make  a  peace  between  your  soul  and  you. 
Young  Arthur  is  alive:  This  hand  of  mine 
Is  yet  a  maiden  and  an  innocent  hand, 
Not  painted  with  the  crimson  spots  of  blood. 
Within  this  bosom  never  enter'd  yet 
The  dreadful  motion  of  a  mur.d'rous  thought,*' 
And  you  have  slander'd  nature  in  my  form ; 
Which,  howsoever  rude  exteriorly, 
Is  yet  the  cover  of  a  fairer  mind 
Than  to  be  butcher  of  an  innocent  child. 

K.  John.  Doth  Arthur  live  ?  0,  haste  thee  to 

the  peers. 
Throw  this  report  on  their  incensed  rage. 
And  make  them  tame  to  their  obedience ! 
Forgive  the  comment  that  my  passion  made 
Upon  thy  feature ;  for  my  rage  was  blind. 
And  foul  imaginary  eyes  of  blood 
Presented  thee  more  hideous  than  thou  art. 
O,  answer  not ;  but  to  my  closet  bring 
The  angry  lords,  with  all  expedient  haste: 
I  conjure  thee  but  slowly  ;  run  more  fest. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Arthur,  on  the  Walls. 
Arth.  The  wall  is  high  ;  and  yet  will  I  leap 

down : — ^* 
Good  ground,  be  pitiful,  and  hurt  me  not ! — 
There  's  few,  or  none,  do  know  me  ;  if  they  did, 
This  ship-boy's  semblance  hath  disguis'd  me  quite. 
I  am  afraid  ;  and  yet  I  '11  venture  it. 
If  I  get  down,  and  do  not  break  my  limbs. 


AC!T  rv. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE   m. 


I  '11  find  a  thousand  shifts  to  get  away : 
As  good  to  die,  and  go,  as  die,  and  stay. 

\Leaps  down. 
0  me !  my  uncle's  spirit  is  in  these  stones : — 
Heaven  take  my  soul,   and   England   keep    my 
bones !  [Dies. 

Enter  Pembroke,  Salisbury,  and  Bigot. 

Sal.  Lords,  I  will  meet  him  at  saint  Edmurd's- 
Bury ; 
It  is  our  safety,  ana  we  must  embrace 
This  gentle  offer  of  the  perilous  time. 

Pern.  Who  brought  that  letter  from  the  cardinal  1 

Sal.  The  count  Melun,  a  noble  lord  of  France  ; 
Whose  private  with  me,  of  the  Dauphin's  love, 
Is  much  more  general  than  these  lines  import.*^ 

Big.  To-morrow  morning  let  us  meet  him  then. 

Sal.  Or,  rather  then  set  forward  :  for  'twill  be 
Two  long  days'  journey,  lords,  or  e'er  we  met. 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  Once  more  to-day  well  met,  distemper'd 
lords ! 
The  king,  by  me,  requests  your  presence  straight. 
Sal.  The  king  hath  dispossess'd  himself  of  us  ; 
We  will  not  line  his  sin  bestained  cloak 
With  our  pure  honours,  nor  attend  the  foot 
That  leaves  the  print  of  blood  where-e'er  it  walks  ; 
Return,  and  tell  him  so  ;  we  know  the  worst. 
Bast.  Whate'er  you  think,  good  words,  I  think, 

were  best. 
Sal.  Our  griefs,  and  not  our  manners,  reason 

now. 
Bast.  But  there  is  little  reason  in  your  grief; 
rherefore,  't  were  reason,  you  had  manners  now. 
Pem.  Sir,  sir,  impatience  hath  this  privilege. 
Bast.  'Tis  true  ;  to  hurt  his  master,  no  man  else. 
Sal.  This  is  the  prison  :  What  is  he  lies  here  ? 

[Seeing  Arth. 
Pem.    O   death,  made   proud  with  pure  and 
princely  beauty  ! 
The  earth  had  not  a  hole  to  hide  this  deed. 

Sal.  Murder,  as  hating  what  himself  hath  done, 
Doth  lay  it  open,  to  urge  on  revenge. 

Big.  Or,  when  he  doom'd  this  beauty  to  a  grave, 
Found  it  too  precious-princely  for  a  grave. 

Sal.  Sir  Richard,  what  think  you  ?     Have  you 
beheld. 
Or  have  you  read,  or  heard  ?  or  could  you  think? 
Or  do  you  almost  think,  although  you  see, 
That  you  do  see  ?    could  thought,  without  this 
object, 


Form  such  another  ?     This  is  the  very  top. 
The  height,  the  crest,  or  crest  unto  the  crest. 
Of  murder's  arms  :  this  is  the  bloodiest  shame 
The  wildest  savag'ry,  the  vilest  stroke. 
That  ever  wall-ey'd  wrath,  or  staring  rage, 
Presented  to  the  tears  of  soft  remorse. 

Pem.  All  murders  past  do  stand  excus'd  in  this 
And  this,  so  sole,  and  so  unmatchable. 
Shall  give  a  holiness,  a  purity. 
To  the  yet-unbegotten  sin  of  time  ; 
And  prove  a  deadly  bloodshed  but  a  jest, 
Exampled  by  this  heinous  spectacle. 

Bast.  It  is  a  damned  and  a  bloody  work  ; 
The  graceless  action  of  a  heavy  hand. 
If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand. 

Sal.  If  that  it  be  the  work  of  any  hand  ? — 
We  had  a  kind  of  light,  what  would  ensue : 
It  is  the  shameful  work  of  Hubert's  hand  ; 
The  practice,  and  the  purpose,  of  the  king  : — 
From  whose  obedience  I  forbid  my  soul, 
Kneeling  before  this  ruin  of  sweet  life, 
And  breathing  to  his  breathless  excellence 
The  incense  of  a  vow,  a  holy  vow  ; 
Never  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
Never  to  be  infected  with  delight. 
Nor  conversant  with  ease  and  idleness, 
Till  I  have  set  a  glory  to  this  hand, 
By  giving  it  the  worship  of  revenge. 

Pem.  Big.   Our  souls  rehgiously  confirm  thy 
words. 

Enter  Hubert. 

Hub.  Lords,  I  am  hot  with  haste  in  seeking  you  ; 
Arthur  doth  live ;  the  king  halh  sent  for  you, 

Sal.  O,  he  is  bold,  and  blushes  not  at  death  :— 
Avaunt,  thou  hateful  villain,  get  thee  gone  ! 

Huh.  I  am  no  villain. 

Sal.  Must  I  rob  the  law  ? 

[Draioing  his  sword. 

Bast.  Your  sword  is  bright,  sir  ;  put  it  up  again. 

Sal.  Not  till  I  sheath  it  in  a  murderer's  skin. 

Hub.  Stand  back,  lord  Salisbury,  stand  back,  I 
say; 
By  heaven,  I  think,  my  sword  's  as  sharp  as  youi-s  . 
I  would  not  have  you,  lord,  forget  yourself. 
Nor  tempt  the  danger  of  my  true  defence  ;'° 
Lest  I,  by  marking  of  your  rage,  forget 
Your  worth,  your  greatness,  and  nobilit} . 

Big.  Out,  dunghill  I  dar'st  thou  brave  a  noble^ 
man  ? 

Hub.  Not  for  my  life :  but  yet  I  dare  defend 
My  innocent  life  against  an  emperor. 

6A9 


Acr  :v. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE    III. 


I    I 


^«/.  Thou  art  a  murderer. 

Huh.  Do  not  prove  me  so  ; 

Vet,  I  am  none :"     Whose  tongue  soe'er  speaks 

false, 
.Vot  truly  speaks ;  who  speaks  not  truly,  lies. 

Pern.  Cut  him  to  pieces. 

Bast.  Keep  the  peace,  I  say. 

Sal.  Stand  by,  or  I  shall  gall  you,  Faulcon- 
bridge. 

Bast.  Thou  wert  better  gall  the  devil,  Salisbury : 
[f  thou  but  frown  on  me,  or  stir  thy  foot, 
Or  teach  thy  hasty  spleen  to  do  me  shame, 
I  '1!  strike  thee  dead.     Put  up  thy  svi^ord  betime ; 
Or  I  '11  so  maul  you  and  your  toasting-iron, 
That  you  shall  think  the  devil  is  come  from  hell. 

Biff.  What   wilt  thou  do,  renowned  Faulcon- 
bridge  ? 
Second  a  villain,  and  a  murderer  ? 

Hub.  Lord  Bigot,  I  am  none. 

Big.  Who  kill'd  this  prince? 

Huh.  'T  is  not  an  hour  since  I  left  him  well : 
I  lionour'd  him,  I  lov'd  him ;  and  will  weep 
My  date  of  life  out,  for  his  sweet  life's  loss. 

Sal.  Trust  not  those  cunning  waters  of  his  eyes, 
For  villainy  is  not  without  such  rheum  ; 
And  he,  long  traded  in  it,  makes  it  seem 
Like  rivers  of  remorse  and  innocency. 
Away,  with  me,  all  you  whose  souls  abhor 
The  uncleanly  savours  of  a  slaughter-house ; 
For  I  am  stifled  with  this  smell  of  sin. 

Big.  Away,  toward  Bury,  to  the  Dauphin  there  ! 

Pem.  There,  tell  the  king,  he  may  inquire  us  out. 

\Exeunt  Lords. 

Bast.  Here 's  a  good  world  ! — Knew  you  of  this 
fair  work  ? 
Beyond  the  infinite  and  boundless  reach 
Of  mercy,  if  thou  didst  this  deed  of  death, 
Art  thou  damn'd,  Hubert. 

Hub.  Do  but  hear  me,  sir. 

Bast.  Ha  1  I'll  tell  thee  what; 
Thou  art  damn'd  as  black — nay,  nothing  is  so 
black ; 
670 


Thou  art  more  deep  damn'd  than  prince  Lucifer : 

There  is  not  yet  so  ugly  a  fiend  of  hell 

As  thou  shalt  be,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child.^^ 

Hub.  Upon  my  soul, 

Bast.  If  thou  didst  but  consent 

To  this  most  cruel  act,  do  but  despair, 
And,  if  thou  want'st  a  cord,  the  smallest  thread 
That  ever  spider  twisted  from  her  womb 
Will  serve  to  strangle  thee  ;  a  i-ush  will  be 
A  beam  to  hang  thee  on  ;  or  would'st  thou  drowT 

thyself. 
Put  but  a  little  water  in  a  spoon. 
And  it  shall  be  as  all  the  ocean, 

Enough  to  stifle  such  a  villain  up. 

I  do  suspect  thee  very  grievously. 

Hub.  If  I  in  act,  consent,  or  sin  of  thought 
Be  guilty  of  the  stealing  that  sweet  breath 
Which  was  embounded  in  this  beauteous  clay 
Let  hell  want  pains  enough  to  torture  me  ! 
I  left  him  well. 

Bast.  Go,  bear  him  in  thine  arms. — 

I  am  amaz'd,  methinks  ;  and  lose  my  way 
Among  the  thorns  and  dangers  of  this  world. — 
How  easy  dost  thou  take  all  England  up ! 
From  forth  this  morsel  of  dead  royalty. 
The  life,  the  right,  and  truth  of  all  this  realm 
Is  fled  to  heaven ;  and  England  now  is  left 
To  tug  and  scamble,  and  to  part  by  the  teeth 
The  unowed  interest  of  proud-swelling  state. 
Now,  for  the  bare-pick'd  bone  of  majesty. 
Doth  dogged  war  bristle  his  angry  crest. 
And  snarleth  in  the  gentle  eyes  of  peace : 
Now  powers  from  home,  and  discontents  at  home, 
Meet  in  one  line  ;  and  vast  confusion  waits 
(As  doth  a  raven  on  a  sick-fallen  beast,) 
The  imminent  decay  of  wrested  pomp. 
Now  happy  he,  whose  cloak  and  cincture  can 
Hold  out  this  tempest.     Bear  away  that  child, 
And  follow  me  with  speed  ;  I  '11  to  the  king  :   . 
A  th  >usand  businesses  are  brief  in  hand. 
And  heaven  i^self  dcth  frown  upon  the  land. 

\£xexmt 


r-" 


ACT   V. 


KING  JOHJ^. 


SCENE    I. 


ACT    Y. 


I  ! 


SCENE  l.—The  Same.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  John,  Pandulph  with  the  Crown, 
and  Attendants. 

K.  John.  Thus  have  I  yielded  up  into  your  hand 
The  circle  of  my  glory. 

Pand.  Take  again 

[^Giving  John  the  Grown. 
From  this  my  hand,  as  holding  of  the  pope. 
Your  sovereign  greatness  and  authority. 

K.  John.  Now  keep  your  holy  word  :  go  meet 
the  French ; 
And  from  his  holiness  use  all  your  power 
To  stop  their  marches,  'fore  we  are  inflam'd. 
Our  discontented  counties  do  revolt ; 
Our  people  quarrel  with  obedience  ; 
Swearing  allegiance,  and  the  love  of  soul, 
To  stranger  blood,  to  foreign  royalty. 
This  inundation  of  mistemperd  humour 
Rests  by  you  only  to  be  qualified. 
Then  pause  not ;  for  the  present  time  s  so  sick. 
That  present  medicine  must  be  minister'd, 
Or  overthrow  incurable  ensues. 

Pand.  It  was  my  breath  that  blew  this  tempest 
up. 
Upon  your  stubborn  usage  of  the  pope ; 
But,  since  you  are  a  gentle  convertite. 
My  tongue  shall  hush  again  this  storm  of  war. 
And  make  fair  weather  in  your  blustering  land. 
On  this  Ascension-day,  remember  well. 
Upon  your  oath  of  service  to  the  pope, 
Go  I  to  make  the  French  lay  down  their  arms. 

{Exit. 

K.  John.  Is  this  Ascension-day  ?     Did  not  the 
prophet 
Say,  that,  before  Ascension-day  at  noon, 
My  crown  I  should  give  off?   Even  so  I  have : 
I  did  suppose,  it  should  be  on  constraint ; 
But,  heaven  be  thank'd,  it  is  but  vcl'mtary. 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  All  Kent  hath  yielded  ;   nothing  thv  e 
holds  out, 
But  Dover  castle  ;  London  hath  receiv'd. 
Like  a  kind  host,  the  Dauphin  and  his  powers : 
Your  nobles  will  not  hear  you,  but  are  gone 
To  offer  service  to  your  enemy ; 


And  wild  amazement  hurries  up  and  down 
The  little  number  of  your  doubtful  friends. 

K.  John.  Would  not  my  lords  return   to  me 

again. 
After  they  heard  young  Arthur  was  alive  ? 

Bast.  They  found  him  dead,  and  cast  into  the 

streets : 
An  empty  casket,  where  the  jewel  of  life 
By  some  damn'd  hand  was  robb'd  and  ta'en  away. 
K.  John.  That  villain  Hubert  told  me  he  did  live. 
Bast.  So,  on  my  soul,  he  did,  for  aught  he  knew. 
But  wherefore  do  you  droop  ?  why  look  you  sad  ? 
Be  great  in  act,  as  you  have  been  in  thought ; 
Let  not  the  world  see  fear,  and  sad  distrust. 
Govern  the  motion  of  a  kingly  eye ; 
Be  stirring  as  the  time ;  be  fire  with  fire ; 
Threaten  the  threat'ner,  aid  outface  the  brow 
Of  bragging  ho'-:.  .  so  shall  inferior  eyes, 
That  boiiow  their  behaviours  from  the  great, 
Grow  great  by  your  example,  and  put  on 
The  dauntless  spirit  of  resolution. 
Away  ;  and  glister  like  the  god  of  war, 
When  he  intendeth  to  become  the  field : 
Show  boldness,  and  aspiring  confidence. 
What,  shall  they  seek  the  lion  in  his  den, 
And  fright  him  there  ?   and  make  him  tremble 

there  ? 
0,  let  it  not  be  said  ! — Courage,  and  run 
To  meet  displeasure  further  from  the  doors ; 
And  grapple  with  him,  ere  he  come  so  nigh. 
K.  John.  The  legate  of  the  pope  hath  been  with 

me. 
And  I  have  made  a  happy  peace  with  him  ; 
And  he  hath  promis'd  to  dismiss  the  powers 
Led  by  the  Dauphin. 

Bast.  0  inglorious  league  1 

Shall  we,  upon  the  footing  of  our  land, 
Send  fair-play  offers,  and  make  compromise, 
Insinuation,  parley,  and  base  truce, 
To  arms  invasive  ?  shall  a  beardless  boy, 
A  cocker'd  silken  wanton  brave  our  fields, 
And  flesh  his  spirit  in  a  warlike  soil. 
Mocking  the  air  with  colours  idly  spread. 
And  find  no  check  ?    Let  us,  my  liege,  to  arms : 
Perchance,  the  cardinal  cannot  make  your  peace; 
Or  if  he  do,  let  it  at  least  be  said, 
They  saw  we  had  a  purpose  of  defence. 

671 


KING  JOHN. 


scEws  n. 


K.  John.  Have  thou  the  ordering  of  this  present 

time. 
Bast.  Away  then,  with  good  courage ;  yet,  I 

know, 
Our  party  may  well  meet  a  prouder  foe.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.~^  Plain,  near  St.  Edmund's-Bury. 

Enter,  in  arms,  Lewis,  Salisbury,  Melun, 
Pembroke,  Bigot,  and  Soldiers. 

Leio.  My  lord  Melun,  let  this  be  copied  out, 
And  keep  it  safe  for  our  remembrance ; 
Return  the  precedent  to  these  lords  again ; 
That,  having  our  fair  order  written  down, 
Both  they,  and  we,  perusing  o'er  these  notes, 
May  know  wherefore  we  took  the  sacrament, 
And  keep  our  faiths  firm  and  inviolable. 

Sal.  Upon  our  sides  it  never  shall  be  broken. 
And,  noble  Dauphin,  albeit  we  swear 
A  voluntary  zeal,  and  unurgVl  faith, 
To  your  proceedings ;  yet,  believe  me,  prince, 
I  am  not  glad  that  such  a  sore  of  time 
Should  seek  a  plaster  by  contemn'd  revolt. 
And  heal  the  inveterate  canker  of  one  wound, 
By  making  many  :  O,  it  grieves  my  soul. 
That  I  must  draw  this  metal  from  my  side 
To  be  a  widow-maker ;  0,  and  there, 
Where  honourable  rescue,  and  defence, 
Cries  out  upon  the  name  of  Salisbury : 
But  such  is  the  infection  of  the  time. 
That,  for  the  health  and  physic  of  our  right, 
We  cannot  deal  but  with  the  very  hand 
Of  stern  injustice  and  confused  wrong. — 
And  is 't  not  pity,  O  my  grieved  friends ! 
That  we,  the  sons  and  children  of  this  isle. 
Were  born  to  see  so  sad  an  hour  as  this : 
Wherein  we  step  after  a  stranger  march 
Upon  her  gentle  bosom,  and  fill  up 
Her  enemies'  ranks,  (I  must  withdraw  and  weep 
Upon  the  spot  of  this  enforced  cause,) 
To  grace  the  gentry  of  a  land  remote. 
And  follow  unacquainted  colours  here  ? 
What,  here  ? — 0  nation,  that  thou  could'st  remove  ! 
That  Neptune's  arms,  who  clippeth  thee  about, 
Would  bear  thee  from  the  knowledge  of  thyself, 
And  grapple  thee  unto  a  pagan  shore; 
Where  these  two  Christian  armies  might  combine 
The  blood  of  malice  in  a  vein  of  league, 
And  not  to  spend  it  so  unneighbourly  I 

Lew.  A  noble  temper  dost  thou  show  in  this ; 
And  great  affections,  wrestling  in  thy  bosom, 
Do  make  an  earthquake  of  nobility. 
872 


O,  what  a  noble  combat  hast  thou  fought, 

Between  compulsion  and  a  brave  respect ! 

Let  me  wipe  oft"  this  honourable  dew. 

That  silverly  doth  progress  on  thy  cheeks : 

My  heart  hath  melted  at  a  lady's  tears, 

Being  an  ordinary  inundation  : 

But  this  eftusion  of  such  manly  drops. 

This  shower,  blown  up  by  tempest  of  the  soul, 

Startles  mine  eyes,  and  makes  me  more  amaz'd 

Than  had  I  seen  the  vanity  top  of  heaven 

Figur'd  quite  o'er  with  burning  meteors. 

Lift  up  thy  brow,  renowned  Salisbury, 

And  with  a  great  heart  heave  away  this  storm  : 

Commend  these  waters  to  those  baby  eyes, 

That  never  saw  the  giant  world  enrag'd  ; 

Nor  met  with  fortune  other  than  at  feasts. 

Full  warm  of  blood,  of  mirth,  of  gossiping. 

Come,  come ;  for  thou   shalt  thrust  thy  hand  rW 

deep 
Lito  the  purse  of  rich  prosperity, 
As  Lewis  himself: — so,  nobles,  shall  you  all. 
That  knit  your  sinews  to  the  strength  of  mine. 

Enter  Pandulph,  attended. 

And  even  there,  methinks,  an  angel  spake : 
Look,  where  the  holy  legate  comes  apace. 
To  give  us  warrant  from  the  hand  of  heaven, 
And  on  our  actions  set  the  name  of  right, 
With  holy  breath. 

Pand.  Hail,  noble  prince  of  France 

The  next  is  this, — king  John  hath  reconcil'd 
Himself  to  Rome ;  his  spirit  is  come  in, 
That  so  stood  out  against  the  holy  church, 
The  great  metropolis  and  see  of  Rome : 
Therefore  thy  threat'ning  colours  now  wind  up, 
And  tame  the  savage  spirit  of  wild  war ; 
That,  like  a  lion  foster'd  up  at  hand. 
It  may  lie  gently  at  the  foot  of  peace, 
And  be  no  further  harmful  than  in  show. 

Lew.  Your  grace  shall  pardon  me,  I  will  not 
back ; 
I  am  too  high-born  to  be  propertied, 
To  be  a  secondary  at  control, 
Or  useful  serving-man.  and  instrument, 
To  any  sovereign  state  throughout  the  world. 
Your  breath  first  kindled  the  dead  coal  of  wars 
Between  this  chastis'd  kingdom  and  myself, 
And  brought  in  matter  that  should  feed  this  fire 
And  now  'tis  far  too  huge  to  be  blown  out 
With  that  same  weak  wind  which  enkindled  it. 
You  taught  me  how  to  knc^v  the  face  of  right, 
Acquainted  me  with  interest  to  thia  land, 


ACT   V. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE    II. 


Yea,  thrust  tliis  enterprise  into  my  heart; 

And  come  you  now  to  tell  me,  John  hath  made 

His  peace  with  Rome  ?  What  is  that  peace  to  me? 

I,  by  the  honour  of  my  marriage-bed, 

After  young  Arthur,  claim  this  land  for  mine ; 

And,  now  it  is  half-conquer'd,  must  I  back. 

Because  that  John    hath   made  his   peace  with 

Rome  ? 
Am  I  Rome's  slave  ?     What  penny  hath  Rome 

borne. 
What  men  pi'ovided,  what  munition  sent. 
To  underprop  this  action  ?  is  't  not  I, 
That  undergo  this  charge?  who  else  but  I, 
And  such  as  to  my  claim  are  liable. 
Sweat  in  this  business,  and  maintain  this  war? 
Have  I  not  heard  these  islanders  shout  out, 
"  Vive  le  Roy  /"  as  I  have  bank'd  their  towns  ? 
Have  I  not  here  the  best  cards  for  the  game, 
To  win  this  easy  match  play'd  for  a  crown  ? 
And  shall  I  now  give  o'er  the  yielded  set  ? 
No,  on  my  soul,  it  never  shall  be  said. 

Pand,  You  look  but  on  the  outside  of  this  work. 

Lew.  Outside  or  inside,  I  will  not  return 
Till  my  attempt  so  much  be  glorified 
As  to  my  ample  hope  was  promised 
Before  I  drew  this  gallant  head  of  war. 
And  cuird  these  fiery  spirits  from  the  world. 
To  outlook  conquest,  and  to  win  renown 
Even  in  the  jaws  of  danger  and  of  death. — 

l^Trumpet  sdxmds. 
What  lusty  trumpet  thus  doth  summon  us  ? 

Enter  the  Bastard,  attended. 

Bast.  According  to  the  fair  play  of  the  world. 

Let  me  have  audience  ;  I  am  sent  to  speak : 

My  holy  lord  of  Milan,  from  the  king 
[  come,  to  learn  how  you  have  dealt  for  him  ; 
And  as  you  answer,  I  do  know  the  scope 
And  warrant  limited  unto  my  tongue. 

Pand.  The  Dauphin  is  too  wilful-opposite. 
And  will  not  temporise  with  my  entreaties ; 
He  flatly  says,  he  'U  not  lay  down  his  arras. 

Bast.  By  all  the  blood  that  ever  fury  breath'd, 
The  youth  says  well : — Now  hear  our  English  king : 
For  thus  his  royalty  doth  speak  in  me. 
He  is  prepar'd ;  and  reason  too,  he  should : 
Th.s  apish  and  unmannerly  approach, 
Y\\Vr,  harness'd  masque,  and  unadvised  revel. 
This  unhair'd  sauciness,  and  boyish  troops," 
The  king  doth  smile  at :  and  is  well  prepar'd 
To  "whip  this  dwai-fish  war,  these  pigmy  arms, 
From  out  the  circle  of  his  tenitories. 

85 


That  hand,  which  had  the  strength,  even  at  youi 

door, 
To  cudgel  you,  and  make  you  take  the  hatch ;" 
To  dive,  like  buckets,  in  concealed  wells ; 
To  crouch  in  litter  of  your  stable  planks ; 
To  lie,  like  pawns,  lock'd  up  in  chests  and  trunks ; 
To  hug  with  swine ;  to  seek  sweet  safety  out 
In  vaults  and  piisons ;  and  to  thrill,  and  shake, 
Even  at  the  crowing  of  your  nation's  cock. 
Thinking  his  voice  an  armed  Euglislnnan ; — 
Shall  that  victorious  hand  be  feebled  here. 
That  in  your  chambers  gave  you  chastisement? 
No :  Know,  the  gallant  monarch  is  in  arms ; 
And  like  an  eagle  o'er  his  aery  towers, 
To  souse  annoyance  that  comes  near  his  nest. — 
And  you  degenei'ate,  you  ingrate  revolts. 
You  bloody  Neroes,  ripping  up  the  womb 
Of  your  dear  inother  England,  blush  for  shame : 
For  your  own  ladies,  and  pale-visag'd  maids. 
Like  Amazons,  come  tripping  after  drums ; 
Their  thimbles  into  armed  gauntlets  change. 
Their  neelds  to  lances,  and  their  gentle  hearts 
To  fierce  and  bloody  inclination. 

Lexo.  There  end  thy  brave,  and  turn  thy  fa<!e  in 
peace ; 
We  grant,  thou  canst  outscold  us :  fare  thee  well  ■ 
We  hold  our  time  too  precious  to  be  spent 
With  such  a  brabbler. 

Pand.  Give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Bast.  No,  I  will  speak. 

Lew.  We  will  attend  to  neither :  — 

Strike  up  the  drams ;  and  let  the  tongue  of  war 
Plead  for  our  interest,  and  our  being  here. 

Bast.  Indeed,  your  drums,  being  beaten,  wnll  ciy 
out; 
And  so  shall  you,  being  beaten  :  Do  but  stai-t 
An  echo  with  the  clamour  of  thy  drum. 
And  even  at  hand  a  dram  is  ready  brac'd. 
That  shall  reverberate  all  as  loud  as  thine ; 
Sound  but  another,  and  another  shall. 
As  loud  as  thine,  rattle  the  welkin's  ear, 
And   mock   the   deep-mouth'd  thunder:    for   a 

hand 
(Not  trusting  to  this  halting  legate  here, 
Whom  he  hath  us'd  rather  for  sport  than  need,) 
Is  warlike  John ;  and  in  his  forehead  sits 
A  bare-ribb'd  death,  whose  office  is  this  day 
To  feast  upon  whole  thousands  of  the  French. 

Lew.  Strike  up  our  drums,  to  find  this  danger 
out. 

Bast.  And  thou  shalt  find  it,  Dauphin,  do  not 
doubt.  [Exeunt. 

673 


ACT    V. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE  iii-rv 


SCENE  Ill—The  Same.     A  Field  of  Battle. 
Alarums. 

Enter  King  John  and  Hubert. 

K.  John.  How  goes  the  day  witli  us  ?  0,  tell  me, 

Hubert. 
Huh.  Badly,  I  fear :  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 
K.  John.  This  fever,  that  hath  troubled  me  so 

long, 
Lies  heavy  on  me ;  0,  my  heart  is  sick ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  your  valiant  kinsman,  Faulcon- 
bridge, 
Desires  your  majesty  to  leave  the  field ; 
And  send  him  word  by  me,  which  way  you  go. 

K.  John.    Tell  him,  toward  Swinstead,  to  the 
abbey  there. 

Mess.  Be  of  good  comfort ;  for  the  great  supply, 
That  was  expected  by  the  Dauphin  here, 
Are  wreck'd  three  nights  ago  on  Goodwin  sands. 
This  news  Avas  brought  to  Richard  but  even  now ; 
The  French  fight  coldly,  and  retire  themselves. 

K.  John.  Ah  me  !  this  tyrant  fever  burns  me  up. 
And  will  not  let  me  welcome  this  good  news. 


Sot  on  toward  Swinstead :  to  my  litter  straight ; 
Weakness  possesseth  me,  and  I  am  faint.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  YV.—  The  Same.     Another  Part  of  the 
Same. 

Enter  Sailsbury,  Pembroke,  Bigot,  ap.d  Others. 

Sal.  I  did  not  think  the  king  so  stored  with 

friends. 
Pern.  Up  once  again  ;  put  spirit  in  the  Fronch  ; 
If  they  miscarry,  we  miscarry  too. 

Sal.  That  misbegotten  devil,  Faulconbiidge, 
In  spite  of  spite,  alone  upholds  the  day. 

Pem.  They  say,  king  John,  sore  sick,  hath  left 
the  field. 

Enter  Melun  wounded,  and  led  by  Soldier.o. 

Mel.  Load  me  to  the  revolts  of  England  here. 

Sal.  When  avc  were  happy,  we  had  other  names. 

Pem.  It  is  the  count  Melun. 

Sal.  Wounded  to  death. 

Mel.  Fly,  noble  English,  you  are  bought  and 
sold ; 
Untread  the  road- way  of  rebellion. 
And  welcome  home  again  discarded  faith. 
Seek- out  king  John,  and  fall  before  his  feet; 
For,  if  the  French  be  lords  of  this  loud  day, 


He  means  to  recompense  the  pains  you  take 
By  cutting  off"  your  heads :  Thus  hath  he  swc  rn 
And  I  with  him,  and  many  more  with  me, 
Upon  the  altai-  at  St.  Edmund's-Bury  : 
Even  on  that  altar,  where  we  swore  to  you 
Dear  amity  and  eveilasting  love. 

Sal.  May  this  be  possible  ?  may  this  be  true  5 
Mel.    Have   I   not   hideous   death  within   raj 

view. 
Retaining  but  a  quantity  of  life ; 
Which  bleeds  away,  even  as  a  form  of  wax 
Resolveth  fi'om  his  figure  'gainst  the  fire  ? 
What  in  the  world  should  make  me  now  deceive. 
Since  I  must  lose  the  use  of  all  deceit? 
Why  should  I  then  be  false ;  since  it  is  true 
That  I  must  die  here,  and  live  hence  by  truth  ? 
I  say  again,  if  Lewis  do  win  the  day, 
He  is  forsworn,  if  e'er  those  eyes  of  yours 
Behold  another  day  break  in  the  east: 
But  even    this    night,  —  whose  black   contagioius 

breath 
Already  smokes  about  the  burning  crest 
Of  the  old,  feeble,  and  day-wearied  sun, — 
Even  this  ill  night,  your  breathing  shall  expire .' 
Paying  the  fine  of  i-ated  treachery. 
Even  with  a  tieacherous  fine  of  all  your  lives. 
If  Lewis  by  your  assistance  win  the  day. 
Commend  me  to  one  Hubert,  with  your  king; 
The  love  of  him, — and  this  respect  besides. 
For  that  my  grandsire  was  an  Englishman, — 
Awakes  my  conscience  to  confess  all  this. 
In  lieu  whereof,  I  pray  you,  bear  me  hence 
From  forth  the  noise  and  rumour  of  the  field ; 
Where  I  may  think  the  remnant  of  my  thoughts 
In  peace,  and  part  this  body  and  my  soul 
With  contemplation  and  devout  desires. 

Sal.  We  do  believe  thee, — And  beshrew  my 

soul. 
But  I  do  love  the  favour  and  the  form 
Of  this  most  fair  occasion,  by  the  which 
We  will  untread  the  steps  of  damned  flight ; 
And,  like  a  bated  and  retired  flood. 
Leaving  our  rankness  and  irregular  couise, 
Stoop  low  within  those  bounds  we  have  o'erlook'd, 
And  calmly  run  on  in  obedience. 

Even  to  our  oces,n,  to  our  greau  king  John. 

My  arm  shall  give  thee  help  to  bear  thee  hence ; 

For  I  do  see  the  cruel  pangs  of  death. 

Right  in  thine    eye. — Away,  my  frier-di*'     New 

flight; 
And  happy  newness,  that  intends  old  right. 

[Exeunt,  leading  oJ'hLtih, 


ACT    V 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE    V-VIl. 


SCENE  y.~The  Same.     The  French  Camp. 

Entur  Lewis  and  his  Train. 

Lew,  The  sun  of  heaven,  methought,  was  loath 

to  set ; 
But  stay'd,  and  made  the  western  welkin  blush, 
When  the  English  measur'd  backward  their  own 

ground, 
In  faint  retire  :  0,  bravely  came  we  off. 
When  with  a  volley  of  our  needless  shot. 
After  such  bloody  toil,  we  bid  good  night ; 
And  wound  our  tatter'd  colours  clearly  up. 
Last  in  the  field,  and  almost  lords  of  it ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Where  is  my  prince,  the  Dauphin  ? 

Lew.  Here  : — What  news  ? 

Mess.  The  count  Melun  is  slain ;  the  English 
lords. 
By  his  pei-suasion,  are  again  fallen  off: 
And  your  supply,  which  you  have  Avish'd  so  long, 
Are  cast  away,  and  sunk,  on  Goodwin  sands. 

Lew.  Ah,  foul  shrewd  news ! — Beshrew  thy  very 
heart ! 
[  did  not  think  to  be  so  sad  to-night, 
Ap  this  hath  made  me. — Who  was  he,  that  said. 
King  John  did  fly,  an  hour  or  two  before 
The  stumbling  night  did  part  our  weary  powers  ? 

Mess.  Whoever  spoke  it,  it  is  true,  my  lord. 

Lew.  Well ;  keep  good  quarter,  and  good  care 
to-night ; 
The  day  shall  not  be  up  so  soon  as  I, 
To  try  the  fair  adventure  of  to-morrow.     \_Exeunt. 

8CENE  VL — An  open  Place  in  the  Neighbour- 
hood of  Swinstead  Abbey. 

Enter  the  Bastard  and  Hubert,  meeting. 

Hub.  Who  's  there  ?  speak,  ho  !  speak  quickly, 
or  I  shoot. 

Bast.  A  friend  : — What  art  thou  ? 

Hub.  Of  the  part  of  England. 

Bast.  Whither  dost  thou  go  ? 

Hub.  What 's  that  to  thee  ?     Why  may  not  I 
demand 
Of  thine  affairs,  as  well  as  thou  of  mine  ? 

Bast.  Hubert,  I  think. 

Hub.  Thou  hast  a  perfect  thought : 

I  will,  upon  all  hazards,  well  believe 
Thou  art  my  friend,  that  know'st  my  tongue  so  well : 
Who  art  thou  ? 

Bast.  Wlio  thou  wilt :  an  if  thou  please, 


Tliou  may'st  befriend  me  so  much,  as  to  think 
I  come  one  way  of  the  Plantagenets. 

Hub.  Unkind  remembrance  !  thou,  and  endless 
night. 
Have  done  me  shame: — Brave  soldier,  pardon  me 
That  any  accent,  breaking  from  thy  tongue, 
Should  'scape  the  true  acquaintance  of  mine  ear. 

Bast.    Come,   come ;    san?    compliment,    whai 
news  abroad  ? 

Hub.  Why,  here  walk  I,  in  the  black  brow  of 
night. 
To  find  you  out. 

Bast.  Brief,  then  ;  and  what 's  the  news  ? 

Hub.  0,  my  sweet  sir,  news  fitting  to  the  night. 
Black,  fearful,  comfortless,  and  horrible. 

Bast.  Show  me  the  very  wound  of  this  ill  news ; 
I  am  no  woman,  I  '11  not  swoon  at  it. 

Hub.  The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'd  by  a  monk :" 
I  left  him  almost  speechless,  and  broke  out 
To  acquaint  you  with  this  evil ;  that  you  might 
The  better  arm  you  to  the  sudden  time. 
Than  if  you  had  at  leisure  known  of  this. 

Bast.  How  did  he  take  it?  who  did  taste  to 
him? 

Hub.  A  monk,  I  tell  you  ;  a  resolved  villain, 
Whose  bowels  suddenly  burst  out :  the  king 
Yet  speaks,  and,  pei'adventure,  may  recover. 

Bast.  Who  didst  thou  leave  to  tend  his  majesty 

Hub.  Why,  know  you  not  ?  the  lords  are  al 
come  back. 
And  brought  prince  Henry  in  their  company ; 
At  whose  request  the  king  hath  pardon'd  them, 
And  they  are  all  about  his  majesty. 

Bast.    Withhold    thine    indignation,    mighty 
heaven. 

And  tempt  us  not  to  bear  above  our  power ! 

I'll  tell  thee,  Hubert,  half  my  power  this  night, 
Passing  these  flats,  are  taken  by  the  tide. 
These  Lincoln  washes  have  devoured  them  ; 
Myself,  well-mounted,  hardly  have  escap'd. 
Away,  before  !  conduct  me  to  the  king ; 
I  doubt,  he  will  be  dead,  or  ere  I  come.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Yll.—  The  Orchard  o/ Swinstead  Abbey 

Enter  Prince  Henry,'^  Salisbury,  and  Bigot, 
P.  Hen.  It  is  too  late ;  the  life  of  all  his  bloo 3 
Is  touch'd  corruptibly ;  and  his  pure  brain 
(Which   some  suppose  the  soul's  frail  dwelling- 
house,) 
Doth,  by  the  idle  comments  that  it  makes, 
Foretell  the  ending  of  mortality. 

675 


ACT   V. 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE    VII. 


Enter  Pembroke. 
Pern.  His  highness  yet  doth  speak  ;  and  holds 
belief, 
That,  being  brought  into  the  open  air, 
It  would  allay  the  burning  quality 
Of  that  fell  poison  which  assaileth  him. 

P.  Hen.  Let  him  be  brought  into  the  orchard 
here. — 
Doth  he  still  rage  ? —  [Exit  Big. 

Pern.  He  is  more  patient 

Than  when  you  left  him  ;  even  now  he  sung. 

P.  Hen.  O  vanity  of  sickness  !   fierce  extremes, 
[n  their  continuance,  will  not  feel  themselves. 
Death,  having  prey'd  upon  the  outward  parts, 
Leaves  them  invisible ;  and  his  siege  is  now 
Against  the  mind,  the  which  he  pricks  and  wounds 
With  many  legions  of  strange  fantasies ; 
Which,   in   their  throng  and    press   to  that  last 

hold. 
Confound  themselves.     'T  is  strange,  that  death 

should  sing. 

I  am  the  cygnet  to  this  pale  faint  swan, 
Who  chants  a  doleful  hymn  to  his  own  death. 
And,  from  the  organ-pipe  of  frailty,  sings 
His  soul  and  body  to  their  lasting  rest. 

Sal.  Be  of  good  comfort,  prince;  for  you  are 
born 
To  set  a  form  upon  that  indigest 
Which  he  hath  left  so  shapeless  and  so  rude. 

Re-enter  Bigot  and  Attendants,  who  bring  in 
KiKG  John  in  a  Chair. 

K.  John.  Ay,  marry,  now  my  soul  hath  elbow- 
room  ; 
It  would  not  out  at  windows,  nor  at  doors. 
There  is  so  hot  a  summer  in  my  bosom, 
That  all  my  bowels  crumble  up  to  dust : 
I  am  a  scribbled  form,  drawn  with  a  pen 
Upon  a  parchment;  and  against  this  fire 
Do  I  shrink  up. 

P.  Hen.  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

K.  John.    Poison'd, — ill-fare ; — dead,  forsook, 
cast  ofi": 
And  none  of  you  will  bid  the  winter  come, 
To  thrust  his  icy  fingers  in  my  maw ; 
Nor  let  my  kingdom's  rivers  take  their  course 
Through  my  burn'd  bosom ;  nor  entreat  the  north 
To  make  his  bleak  winds  kiss  my  parched  lips. 
And  comfort  me  with  cold : — I  do  not  ask  you 

much, 
I  beg  cold  comfort ;  and  you  are  so  strait, 
A  d  so  ingrateful,  you  deny  me  that, 
676 


P.  Hen,  O,  that  there  were  some  virtue  in  my 
tears. 
That  might  relieve  you  ! 

K.  John.  The  salt  in  them  is  hot. — 

Within  me  is  a  hell ;  and  there  the  poison 
Is,  as  a  fiend,  confin'd  to  tyrannize 
On  unreprievable  condemned  blood. 

Enter  the  Bastard. 

Bast.  0,  I  am  scalded  with  my  violent  motion 
And  spleen  of  speed  to  see  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  0  cousin,  thou  art  come  to  set  mine 
eye: 
The  tackle  of  my  heart  is  crack'd  and  burn'd  ; 
And  all  the  shrouds,  wherewith  ray  life  should  sail. 
Are  turned  to  one  thread,  one  little  hair : 
My  heart  hath  one  poor  string  to  stay  it  by. 
Which  holds  but  till  thy  news  be  uttered  ; 
And  then  all  this  thou  seest,  is  but  a  clod, 
And  module  of  confounded  royalty.'^ 

Bast.  The  Dauphin  is  preparing  hilherward. 
Where,  heaven  he  knows,  how  Ave  shall  answer 

him  : 
For,  in  a  night,  the  best  part  of  my  power. 
As  I  upon  advantage  did  remove. 
Were  in  the  washes,  all  unwarily, 
Devoured  by  the  unexpected  flood. 

[  J%e  King  dies. 

Sal.  You  breathe  these  dead  news  in  as  dead 
an  ear. — 
My  liege  !  my  lord  ! — But  now  a  king, — now  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Even  so  must  I  run  on,  and  even  so  stop. 
What  surety  of  the  world,  what  hope,  what  stay, 
When  this  was  now  a  king,  and  now  is  clay  ! 

Bast.  Art  thou  gone  so  ?  I  do  but  stay  behind. 
To  do  the  office  for  thee  of  revenge ; 
And  then  my  soul  shall  wait  on  thee  to  heaven. 

As  it  on  earth  hath  been  thy  servant  still. 

Now,  now,  you  stars,  that  move  in  your  right 

spheres, 
Where  be  your  powers  ?  Show  now  your  mended 

faiths ; 
And  instantly  return  with  me  again. 
To  push  destruction,  and  perpetual  shame. 
Out  of  the  weak  door  of  our  fointing  land  . 
Straight  let  us  seek,  or  straight  we  shall  be  sought ; 
The  Dauphin  rages  at  our  very  heels. 

Sal.  It   seems,  you   know   not  then  so  much 
as  we ; 
The  cardinal  Pandulph  is  within  at  rest, 
Who  half  an  hour  since  came  from  the  Dauphin ; 
And  brings  from  him  such  offers  of  our  peace 


ACT   V 


KING  JOHN. 


SCENE   VIL 


As  we  with  honour  and  respect  may  take, 
With  purpose  presently  to  leave  this  war. 

B]st.  He  will  the  rather  do  it,  when  he  sees 
Ourselves  well  sinewed  to  our  defence. 

Sal.  Nay,  it  is  in  a  manner  done  already ; 
For  many  carriages  he  hath  despatch'd 
To  the  sea-side,  and  put  his  cause  and  quarrel 
To  the  disposing  of  the  cardinal : 
With  whom  yourself,  myself,  and  other  lords. 
If  you  think  meet,  this  afternoon  will  post 
To  consummate  this  business  happily. 

Bast.    Let    it   be   so: — And   you,    my   noble 
prince. 
With  other  princes  that  may  best  be  spar'd. 
Shall  wait  upon  your  father's  funeral. 

P.  Hen.  At  Worcester  must  his  body  be  interred ; 
For  so  he  will'd  it. 

BaM.  Thither  shall  it  then. 

And  happily  may  your  sweet  self  put  on 


The  hneal  state  and  glory  of  the  land  ! 
To  whom,  with  all  submission,  on  my  knee, 
I  do  bequeath  my  faithful  services 
And  true  subjection  everlastingly. 

Sal.  And  the  like  tender  of  our  love  we  make^ 
To  rest  without  a  spot  for  evermore. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  a  kind  soul,  that  would  give 
you  thanks. 
And  knows  not  how  to  do  it,  but  with  tears. 

Bast.  O,  let  us  pay  the  time  but  needful  woe. 
Since  it  hath  been  beforehand  with  our  griefs. — 
This  England  never  did,  (nor  never  shall,) 
Lie  at  the  proud  foot  of  a  conqueror. 
But  when  it  first  did  help  to  wound  itself. 
Now  these  her  princes  are  come  home  again, 
Con^iC  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms. 
And  we  shall  shock  them :  Nought  shall  mak* 

us  lue. 
If  England  to  itself  do  rest  but  true.         [Exeunt. 


677 


:~^ 


! 


NOTES  TO  MG  JOHN. 


'  LooTc^  where  tJiree-farthings  goes. 

An  allusion  to  a  coin  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  a  three-farthing 
piece,  one  side  of  which  bore  the  insculpturc  of  a  rose. 
Faulconbridge  means  that  his  brother  Eobert  durst  not  put 
n  rose  in  his  ear  lest  it  should  induce  people  to  compare 
him  to  one  of  those  little  thin  coins.  Shakespeare  antici- 
pates the  exibtence  of  this  coin,  as  a  threo-farthing  piece 
was  not  issued  until  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  It  was  at  this 
period  a  fashion  to  wear  a  rose  in  the  cap  or  hair. 

"  T.  would  not  he  sir  Nob  in  any  case. 

Sir  Nob  is  a  contemptuous  term  for  sir  Eobert.  The 
meaning  of  Faulconbridge  is, — If  to  inherit  my  father's 
land  I  must  also  inherit  such  features  as  yours,  I  disclaim 
my  title  to  it.    In  no  case  would  I  have  it. 

8  My  picked  man  of  countries. 

That  is,  a  fashionable  or  foppish  traveller.  One  of  the 
butterflies  of  good  society,  of  whom  our  poet  frequently 
expresses  his  contempt. 

*  Lilce  an  ABC-book. 

An  ABG-booh,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  or  as  they  spelt  and 
wrote  it,  an  alsey-book^  is  a  catechism. 


*  Oolhrand  the  giant. 

An  allusion  to  the  story  of  Colbrand  the  Danish  giant, 
whom  Guy  of  Warwick  killed  in  the  presence  of  king 
Athelstan. 


•  There '«  toys  abroad,  i.  o.  rumours,  suspicions. 

'  Knight,  knight,  good  mother, — Basilisco-like. 

Mr.  Theobald  tells  us  that  this  line  is  a  satirical  allusion 
to  a  stupid  drama  of  that  age,  called  Soliman  and  Perseda. 
In  it  there  is  a  bragging  cowardly  knight,  called  Basilisco, 
whose  pretensions  being  discovered  by  Piston,  a  buffoon 
servant  in  the  play,  the  latter  compels  him  to  swear  accord- 
ing to  his  dictation,  when  the  following  dialogue  occurs : — 

Bas.  0,  I  swear,  I  swear. 

Pist.  By  the  contents  of  this  blade, — 

Ba,s.  By  the  contents  of  tliio  blade, — 

Pist.  I,  the  aforesaid  Basilisco, — 

Bas.   I,  tlio   aforcsaii  Basilisco, — iniffht,   good  /elloto, 

knight. 
Pist.  Knave,  good  fe  low,  knave,  knave. 
6^8 


In  Shakespeare's  time  the  play  was  no  doubt  fresh  in  tin 
minds  of  the  audience,  and  the  allusion  understood. 

8  Tf.e  awless  lion  could  not  wage  the  fight, 
Nor  keep  his  princely  heart  from  Hichard^s  hand. 

An  allusion  to  a  tradition  respecting  Richard  the  First 
that  he  acquired  his  surname  of  Co&ur-de-lion  from  having 
plucked  out  tlio  heart  of  a  lion  to  whose  fury  he  was  ex- 
posed by  the  Duke  of  Austria. 

»  His  father  never  was  so  true  begot; 
It  cannct  be,  an'  if  thou  wert  his  mother. 

Elinor  had  been  divorced  from  her  first  husband,  Lewis 
the  Seventh  of  France,  to  whom  she  had  been  married 
sixteen  years,  and  whom  she  accompanied  on  a  crusade  to 
the  Holy  Land,  because  he  suspected  her  of  an  intrigue 
with  a  handsome  Saracen  named  Saladin. 

«»  To  oi'y  aim,  i.  e.  to  encourage,  to  urge  on. 

11 '  Tis  not  the  roundure. 

Eoundure  has  the  same  meaning  as  the  French  word 
rondeur,  i.  e.  the  circle.  So  in  All 's  Lost  by  Lust,  a  tragedy ; 
Eowley,  1633— 

"Will  she  meet  our  arms 

"With  an  alternate  rounduref 

12  And,  like  a  jolly  troop  of  huntsmen,  corn^ 
Our  lusty  English,  all  with  purpled  hands. 

It  was  customary  amongst  huntsmen  to  stain  their  hands 
in  the  blood  of  the  dying  deer,  as  a  trophy  of  their  suc- 
cess. This  habit  is  alkided  to  in  Julius  Ccesar,  where  the 
conspirators  kneel  and  bathe  their  hands  in  the  blood  o. 
the  slain  dictator. 


By  our  best  eyes  cannot  be  censured. 

That  is,  the  equality  in  prowess  of  your  armies  cannov 
be  reproajhed  or  denied.  No  superiority  is  to  be  dis- 
cerned on  either  side. 


1*  Thise  soroyles  of  Anglers. 

Scroyle  is  a  term  of  contempt,  meaning  a  low,  mean  fel- 
low. It  is  sometimes  used  to  signify  a  person  of  a  scrofu- 
lous habit ;  a  leper. 


NOTES  TO  KING  JOHN. 


"  Do  like  the  viulines  of  Jerutalem. 

Slmkespeare  appears  to  have  alluded  to  an  incident  in 
ft  book  current  in  his  time,  called: — A  oompendious  and 
most  marvellous  History  of  the  latter  times  of  the  Jewes' 
Common-weale,  &c.  The  people  in  Jerusalem  were  di- 
vided into  three  parties,  who  carried  on  a  fierce  civil  war 
each  upon  the  others.  At  the  same  time  they  were  be- 
sieged by  the  Eomans;  leaving,  thertfbro,  their  mutual 
hatred,  tlioy  joined  their  powers,  and  &  »tting  open  their 
gates,  fell  upon  the  Romans  with  such  fury  that  the  latter 
fled  before  them. 

'«  Volquessen. 

The  ancient  name  for  the  country  now  called  the  Vexin; 
In  Latin,  Pagus  Felocassinus.  That  part  of  it  called  the 
Norman  Vexin  wa.s  in  dispute  between  Philip  and  John. 

"  That  smoothfaced  gentleman,  tickling  co7nmodity. 

Commodity,  is  interest  or  selfishness.  The  meaning  of 
the  passage  is; — interested  motives  govern  all  mankind, 
and  lure  us  from  our  good  intentions. 

1*  But  on  this  day,  let  seamen  fear  no  wreck ; 
No  bargains  break,  that  are  not  this  day  made. 

But  on  this  day,  means  exce2}t  on  this  day;  let  neither 
Bhipwreck  nor  any  other  evil  be  feared,  except  on  this 
ominous  day. 

"  For  that,  which  thou  hast  sworn  to  do  amiss, 
Is  not  amiss  wlien  it  is  truly  done. 

This  IB  an  apparent  contradiction ;  Warburton  would 
road, — Is  yet  amiss ;  and  Sir  T.  Ilanmer,  tnost  amit;s. 
Some  critics  have  imagined  that  by  being  truly  done,  the 
Cardinal  means  being  omitted.  That  is,  by  the  omission 
of  evil,  truth  is  most  done ;  but  this  construction  is  a  very 
hard  ani  forced  one. 

20  Philip. 

Here  the  King,  who  knighted  Faulconbridge  by  the  !iame 
of  Sir  Eichard,  calls  him  by  his  former  name. 

SI  To  Bngland,  if  you  will. 

Neither  the  King  nor  the  Cardinal  had  alluded  to  Eng- 
land since  the  entrance  of  Constance.  Mr.  Malone  points 
out  that  perhaps  she  is,  in  despair,  addressing  the  absent 
John : — "  Take  my  son  to  England,  if  you  will ;"  now  that 
he  is  in  your  power,  1  have  no  prospect  of  seeing  him  again. 
It  is,  therefore,  of  no  consequence  to  me  where  he  is. 

'^  John  lays  you,  plots. 

That  is,  John  lays  plots  which  must  be  serviceable  to  you. 
Ho  is  unwittingly  forwarding  your  interest. 

^^  Nortlmmpton. 

It  has  been  stated  in  the  introduction  to  this  play,  that 
Arthur  did  not  perish  in  England,  but  at  Eouen,  in  Nor- 
mandy. 

"<  Here  once  again  we  sit,  once  again  crowned. 

John's  second  coronation  was  at  Canterbury,  in  the  year 
1201.    Ho  was  crowned  a  third  time  at  the  same  place,  after 


the  murder  of  Artliur,  as  if  to  confirm  his  title  now  that  his 
competitor  was  removed. 

^^  And  here '«  a  prophet. 

Peter,  the  hermit  of  Pomfret ;  this  man  was  in  great  re- 
pute among  the  common  people.  John  was  much  disturbed 
by  the  prodiclion,  thinking  that  it  betokened  his  death. 
Notwithstandhig  that  the  event  came  to  pass,  the  tyrant 
ordered  Peter  and  his  son  to  be  dragged  at  the  tails  of 
horses  through  the  streets  of  Warham,  and  afterwards 
hanged.  Tlie  prophecy,  as  it  is  called,  was  made  only  three 
(lays  before  the  event  predicted.  A  shrewd  man  might 
have  guessed  the  result,  and  an  enthusiast  believed  that  to 
be  derived  from  inspiration  which  proceeded  only  from 
c.dculation  and  foresight.  The  unhappy  man  paid  a  fear- 
ful penalty  either  for  fraud  or  delusion. 

2"  Advised  respect,  i.  e.  deliberate  consideration. 

2'  Within  this  bosom  never  entei-^d  yet 

The  dreadful  motion  of  a  murdWous  thovgM. 

This  assertion  of  Hubert's  is  a  direct  falsehood ;  he  had 
not  only  premeditated  the  murder  of  Arthur,  but  was  with 
great  difficulty  restrained  by  the  tears  and  vehement  en- 
treaties of  the  unhappy  prince,  from  carrying  his  diabolical 
idea  into  execution.  He  is  willing  to  take  credit  for  a  more 
generous  and  merciful  nature  than  he  possessed,  and  as  he 
had  repented  of  his  revolting  intention,  perhaps  he  also 
persuaded  himself  that  he  never  really  intended  its  com- 
mission. It  is  but  just  to  state  that  the  Hubert  of  history 
was  a  very  different  character  from  the  one  delineated  bj 
the  pen  of  Shakespeare ;  in  the  next  reign  he  played  a  very 
conspicuous  part,  and  is  described  by  Hume  as  "  the  ablest 
and  most  virtuous  minister  that  Henry  ever  possessed,  a 
man  who  had  been  steady  to  the  crown  in  the  most  difficult 
and  dangerous  times,  and  who  yet  showed  no  disposition, 
in  the  height  of  his  power,  to  enslave  or  oppress  the  peo- 
ple." He  married  the  eldest  sister  of  the  king  of  Scots, 
was  created  Earl  of  Kent,  and  made  Chief  Justiciary  o 
England  for  life,  though  he  afterwards  lost  the  favour  o. 
the  fickle  king. 

2s  The  wall  is  high;  and  yet  I  will  leap  down. 

Shakespeare  has  here  followed  the  old  play.  The  exact 
method  of  Arthur's  death  has  not  been  ascertained ;  the 
greatest  credence  is  placed  in  the  relation  of  Ealph,  Abbot 
of  Coggeshall,  who  tells  us  that  the  young  prince  having 
been  removed  from  Falaise  to  Eouen,  was  one  night  startled 
from  his  sleep  and  desired  to  descend  to  the  foot  of  the 
tower,  which  was  washed  by  the  waters  of  the  Seine.  At 
the  portal  was  a  boat  containing  his  uncle  John,  and  Peter 
de  Maulac,  the  esquire  of  the  tyrant.  The  dark  looks  ot 
these  men,  the  gloom  and  silence  of  the  spot,  told  the  un- 
happy youth  that  his  last  hour  was  at  hand.  Falling  on 
his  knees,  he  implored  John  to  save  his  life,  but  the  mer 
ciless  tyrant  gave  the  signal,  and  De  Maulac  struck  the 
fatal  blow.  Some  say  that  this  man  shrunk  from  the  deed, 
and  that  John  himself,  seizing  his  nephew  by  the  hair, 
staljed  him  to  the  heart,  and  then  hurled  the  body  into 
the  river.  Hemingford  and  Knyghton,  however,  who  wrote 
near  the  time,  say  that  De  Maulac  was  the  executioner, 
which  is  likely,  as  John  afterwards  bestowed  upon  this 
ruffian  the  heiress  of  the  barony  of  Mulgrave  in  marriage, 
probably  as  the  reward  of  this  savage  act.  That  the  prince 
was  murdered  either  by  the  hand  of  John  or  at  his  dicta^ 
tion  all  historians  are  agreed. 

679 


NOTES  TO  KING  JOHN. 


*»  Whose  private  with  me  oftlte  DauphirCs  love, 
Is  much  more  general  than  these  lines  import. 

That  is,  liis  oral  communication  of  the  esteem  in  which 
:]ie  Dauphin  holds  us,  is  much  more  ample  than  the  letter. 

30  Of  my  true  defence. 
Honest  defence ;  defence  in  a  good  cause. 

•  Do  iwt  prove  me  so  ; 


Yet  I  am  none. 

That  is,  do  not  make  me  a  murderer  by  compelling  mo 
1.0  kill  you  in  defending  myself.  I  am  not  a  murderer  as 
yet — not  hitherto  one. 

ss  There  is  not  yet  so  ugly  a  fiend  of  hell 

As  thou  shall  he,  if  thou  didst  kill  this  child. 

"  I  remember  once,"  says  Mr.  Steevens,  "  to  have  met 
with  a  book,  printed  in  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth 
(wliich  Shakespeare,  possibly,  might  have  seen),  where  we 
are  told  that  the  deformity  of  the  condemned  in  the  other 
world,  is  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  degrees  of  their  guilt. 
The  author  of  it  observes  how  difticult  it  would  be,  on 
this  account,  to  distinguish  between  Belzebub  and  Judas 
Iscariot." 

''  This  unhair''d  sauciness,  and  loyish  troops. 

The  printed  copies  read  unheard,  but  that  is  a  word  of 
little  force,  and  not  very  applicable  to  ohe  sense  of  the  line. 
It  is  vrJiaii-ed,  youthful,  beardless.  Hair  was  formerly 
s-ritten  here;  hence  the  error.  Faulconbridge  has  pre- 
n  -iiisly  exclaimed. 

Shall  a  beardless  boy, 

A  cocker'd  silken  wanton,  hriwo  our  fieliis  i 


^*  And  ma/ce  you  take  the  hatch. 

To  take  &  nedgo  or 


That  is,  to  leap  the  hatch  in  fear, 
ditch  is  the  hunter's  phrase. 


'*  The  king,  I  fear,  is  poison'' d  hy  a  monk. 

We  Lave  spoken  >f  this  tradition  in  the  introduction  to 
this  play.  None  '  f  the  historians  who  wrote  within  sixty 
years  after  the  death  of  John,  allude  to  this  improbable 
story.  Thomas  Wykes  is  the  first  who  relates  it,  in  his 
Chronicle,  as  a  report.  Death  produced  by  a  violent  poison 
would  have  been  as  rapid  as  the  poet  represented  it,  but 
John's  illness  lasted  nearly  three  days,  and  he  had  for 
some  time  previously  been  much  harassed  in  body  and  dis- 
tressed in  mind.  Notwithstanding  that  his  life  had  been 
passed  in  avowed  irrcligion,  the  terror-stricken  tyrant 
breathed  almost  his  last  words  into  tlie  ears  of  a  priest. 
The  Abbot  of  Croxtou  asked  him  whjre  he  would  be 
buried  ?  With  a  faint  groan  John  answered,  "  I  commend 
my  soul  to  God,  and  my  body  to  St.  Wulstan." 

=*  Enter  Prince  Henry. 

This  prince  was  but  nine  years  old  when  his  fatlier  died. 
He  reigned  over  England  during  a  period  of  fifty-six  years, 
but  tlie  Earl  of  Pembroke  was  regent  until  the  death  o. 
that  nobleman. 


="  And  Tnodule  of  confounded  royalty. 

Module  an  i  model  had,  in  Shakesi^eare's  time,  the  ^ame 
meaning,  or  were  different  modes  tt  spelling  the  same 
word. 

II.  T 


680 


ling  IRirljaii  t|f  ^nm\. 


DETWEEN  the  death  of  John  and  the  commencement  of  this  play  four  kings  had  successively  worn 
the  crown  of  England,  and  a  period  of  nearly  two  centuries  had  elapsed ;  but  this  and  the  seven 
plays  which  follow  are  one  continuous  history.  A  certain  connexion  is  kept  up  between  them,  and 
they  may  be  termed  one  perfect  historical  romance,  of  which  the  different  plays  constitute  the  books, 
and  the  acts  and  scenes  the  chapters.  These  historic  dramas  must  be  regarded  as  lofty  fictions,  fiction 
teaching  truth ;  great  political  parables,  based  on  facts,  but  rearing  their  high  and  graceful  pinnacles 
into  the  realms  of  imagination.  But  if  they  are  pronounced  to  be  strict  literal  history,  then  must  we 
say  that  much  of  histoiy  is  merely  what  Napoleon  declared  it  to  be—"  a  fiction  agreed  upon." 

Richard  ascended  the  throne  in  1377,  when  but  in  his  eleventh  year;  but  notwithstanding  his 
youth  he  was  respected  as  the  son  of  Edward  the  famous  Black  Prince,  the  darling  of  the  people 
and  as  the  grandson  of  the  powerful  and  popular  mouarch  Edward  the  Third.  Shakespeare  in  this 
drama  passes  over  one-and-twenty  turbulent  years  of  Richard's  reign,  and  confines  himself  to  the 
incidents  of  the  two  last ;  commencing  with  the  accusation  by  Bolingbroke  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk 
of  treason.  Richard  committed  a  great  error  in  banishing  these  noblemen ;  during  his  whole  reign 
he  had  been  oppressed  by  the  power  of  his  uncles  and  others  of  his  great  nobility.  His  policy 
should  have  been  to  let  them  quarrel  and  fight  among  themselves,  and  thus  have  rendered  each  a 
counterpoise  to  the  power  of  the  rest.  To  banish  Hereford  was  both  unjust  and  impolitic,  but  to  seize 
his  estates  on  the  death  of  his  father,  John  of  Gaunt,  was  grossly  dishonest.  This  arbitrary  act  tore 
the  crown  from  Richard's  temples,  and  paved  the  gloomy  road  to  his  murder-tainted  cell  at  Pomfret. 
It  brought  the  banished  duke  to  England,  ostensibly  to  obtain  his  paternal  estates,  but  in  reality  to 
seize  the  crown.  Encouraged  by  his  own  popularity  in  England,  by  Richard's  absence,  and  the 
general  discontent  of  both  nobles  and  people,  the  crafty  Bolingbroke  returned  and  landed  at  Ravenspur 
with  but  sixty  attendants ;  but  he  had  chosen  his  time  wisely,  and  was  soon  at  the  head  of  an  army 
of  sixty  thousand  men. 

Weak,  dissipated,  and  frivolous  as  Richard  was,  he  gave,  on  some  few  occasions,  evidences  of 
great  courage  and  promptitude  of  character.  His  conduct  on  the  death  of  the  rebel  Tyler  at  Smith- 
field,  when  he  disarmed  the  fury  of  the  populace  by  riding  boldly  up  to  them,  and  exclaiming,  "What 
are  ye  doing,  my  people  ?  Tyler  was  a  traitor — I  am  your  king,  and  I  will  be  your  captain  and 
guide,"  was  courageous  and  decisive.  Such  heroism  in  a  boy  of  fifteen,  promised  great  talents  in  his 
maturity.  The  spirit  of  his  father  seemed  to  animate  him  on  that  occasion.  Of  a  similar  character 
was  his  conduct  to  his  tyrannical  uncle  Gloucester,  whose  ambitious  schemes  had  robbed  the  young 
king  of  all  real  power,  and  left  him  but  the  shadow  of  a  sceptre,  by  placing  the  government  in  the 
hands  of  a  commission  of  the  nobles.  In  a  full  council,  Richard,  suddenly  addressing  his  uncle,  said, 
"How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?"  "  Your  highness,"  replied  the  duke,  "is  in  your  twenty-second 
year."  "  Then,"  continued  the  king,  "  I  am  surely  of  age  to  manage  my  own  affairs.  I  have  been 
longer  under  the  control  of  guardians  than  any  ward  in  my  dominions.  I  thank  ye,  my  lords,  for 
your  past  services,  but  I  want  them  no  longer."  And  he  thereupon  disso'ved  the  commission,  and 
resumed  the  exercise  of  bis  royal  authority.  But  his  mind  appears  to  have  been  swayed  by  no  just 
s^  681 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


principles,  and  if  for  a  time  be  won  the  esteem  of  his  nobles  or  his  people,  he  soon  contrived  by 
some  selfish  or  tyrannical  act  to  erase  the  favourable  impression  he  had  made. 

Had  he  possessed  a  just  and  firm  mind,  he  might  have  become  the  most  popular  and  absolute 
monarch  this  country  had  yet  acknowledged.  The  great  insurrection  of  the  peasantry  was  an  inci- 
dent he  could  have  turned  to  his  own  advantage  ;  had  he  kept  ftiith  with  these  ignorant  and 
misguided  people,  he  would  have  reigned  their  sovereign  indeed,  enthroned  in  their  rude  affections, 
kinged  in  their  hearts.  How  he  did  keep  his  word  with  them,  the  headsman  and  the  hangman  best 
could  tell.  Promise-breaking  and  perfidy  appear  to  have  been  vices  of  royalty,  and  they  are  vices 
behind  which  ever  stalks  the  grim  and  gaunt  avenger ;  treachery  always  calls  down  upon  itself  its 
own  punishment.  It  led  the  vacillating  Richard  to  a  horrible  death  in  Porafret  Castle,  and  in 
later  times  it  brought  another  English  monarch  (whose  cliaracter  bore  many  points  of  resemblance 
to  that  of  Richard)  to  perish  on  the  scaffold,  in  the  capital  of  his  own  land,  and  surrounded  by  his 
own  people. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Shakespeare  is  correct  in  his  account  of  the  murder  of  the  deposed 
monarch :  it  was  long  believed  that  he  was  dispatched  by  Sir  Piers  Exton  and  others  of  his  guards, 
but  it  is  now  generally  supposed  tha;t  he  was  starved  to  deatli  in  prison ;  and  it  is  added  that  the 
wretched  captive  lived  a  fortnight  after  all  food  was  denied  him.  History  is  little  more  than  a 
fearful  record  of  crimes,  at  the  bare  relation  of  which  humanity  sliudders ;  and  in  these  barbarous 
times  almost  all  men  appear  to  have  been  either  oppressors  or  oppressed. 

This  drama  was  first  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  by  Andrew  Wise,  August  29,  159V,  and  is 
supposed  to  have  been  written  in  the  same  year.  There  was  a  play  upon  this  subject  in  existence 
before  Shakespeare's,  but  it  appears  to  liave  been- laid  aside  on  the  production  of  his  drama,  and  has 
iince  perished. 

682 


PEESONS    EEPEESEKTED, 


King  Richard  the  Second. 

Appear  s,  Act  1.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc,  4.    Act  II.  so.  1.    Act  III. 
sc.  2 ;  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  so.  1 ;  sc.  5. 

?i;mumd  of  Langley,  Duke  o/"  York,  and  Uncle  to 

the  King. 

Appears,  Ac   II.  sc.  1;  sc.  2;  sc.  8.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3. 
Act   V.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  2;  so.  3;  sc.  6. 

John  of  Gaunt,  Duke  of  Lancaster,  and  Uncle  to 

the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2;  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Henry,  surnamed  Bolingbroke,  Duke  of  Hereford, 

Son  to  John  of  Gaunt ;  afterwards  King 

Henry  the  Fourth. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 
sc.  8.    Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  8;  sc.  6. 

Duke  of  Aumerle,  Son  to  the  Duke  of  York. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.     Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  2 ; 
so.  8.    Act  IV.  so.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Mowbray,  Duke  of  Norfolk. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8. 

Duke  of  Surrey. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Earl  op  Salisbury^. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8. 

Earl  Berkley. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  3. 

Earl  of  Northumberland. 

Appears,  Aot  II.  sc.  1 ;   sc.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3.     Act 
IV.  80  1.    Act  V.  sc.  1  ;  sc.  6. 

Henry  Percy,  his  Son. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  3.    Act  III.  so.  1 ;  so.  8.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 
Act  V.  so.  3 ;  sc.  6. 

Lord  Ross, 
Lord  Willoughby, 
Appear,  Act  II.  so.  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Lord  Fitzwater. 
appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc  6. 


Bishop  of  Carlisle. 
rs,  Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  bo.  6, 

Abbot  of  Westminster. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Lord  Marshal. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  8. 

^,         '  [  Favourites  of  the  Kinff 
Green,  )  ^  o 

Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  4.     Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc,  1. 

Bagot,  also  a  Favourite  of  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.     Act  IV,  3c.  ] 

Sir  Stephen  Scroop. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc,  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Sir  Pierce  of  Exton. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  4 ;  sc.  5 ;  sc.  6. 

Captain  of  a  Band  of  Welchmen 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4. 

A  Gardener. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  4. 

A  Groom. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  5. 

Queen  to  King  Richard. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  M  L 

Duchess  of  Gloucester. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2. 

Duchess  of  York. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Ladies  attending  on  the  Queen. 
Appear,  Act  III.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Lords,   Heralds,    Officers,    Soldiers,   Messengers, 
Keeper,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE, — Dis])ersedhj  in  England  and  Wales. 

683 


THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 


litig  tojmrii  tjie  §mnt 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — London.      A.  Boom  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Richard,  attmded  ;  John  of  Gaunt, 
and  other  Nob.es,  with  him. 

K.  Rich,     Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honour'd 
Lancaster, 
ELast  thou,  according  to  thy  oath  and  band, 
Brought  hither  Henry  Hereford  thy  bold  son  ; 
Here  to  make  good  the  boisterous  late  appeal, 
Which  then  our  leisure  would  not  let  us  hear, 
Against  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray  ? 
Gaunt.  I  have,  my  liege. 
K.  Rich.  Tell  rae  moreover,  hast  thou  sounded 
him, 
[f  he  appeal  the  duke  on  ancient  malice ; 
Or  worthily  as  a  good  subject  should, 
On  some  known  ground  of  treachery  in  him  ? 
Gaunt.  Ks,  near  as  I  could  sift  him  on  that 
argument, — 
On  some  apparent  danger  seen  in  him, 
Aim'd  at  your  highness,  no  inveterate  malice. 
K.  Rich.  Then  call  them  to  our  presence  ;  face 
to  face, 
And  frowning  brow  to  brow,  ourselves  will  hear 
The  accuser,  and  the  accused,  freely  speak  : — 

[Exeunt  some  Attends. 
High-stomach'd  are  they  both,  and  full  of  ire, 
Tn  rage  deaf  as  the  sea,  hasty  as  fire. 

Re-enter  Attendants,  with  Bolinobroke  and 
Norfolk. 

Boling.  Full  many  years  of  happy  days  befal 
My  gracious  sovereign,  my  most  loving  liege ! 
Nor.  Each  day  still  better  other's  happiness ; 
684 


Until  the  heavens,  envying  earth's  good  hap, 
Add  an  immortal  title  to  your  crown  ! 

K.  Rich.    We  thank  you  both  :  70^  one  but 

flatters  us, 
As  well  appeareth  by  the  cause  you  come ; 
Namely,  to  appeal  each  other  of  high  treason. — 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  what  dost  thou  object 
Against  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray  ? 
Boling.     First,  (heaven    be  the  record  to  my 

speech  !) 
In  the  devotion  of  a  subject's  love. 
Tendering  the  precious  safety  of  my  prince. 
And  free  from  wrath  or  misbegotten  hate. 
Come  I  appellant  to  this  princely  presence. — 
Now,  Thomas  Mowbray,  do  I  turn  to  thee, 
And  mark  my  greeting  well ;  for  what  I  speak, 
My  body  shall  make  good  upon  this  earth, 
Or  my  divine  soul  answer  it  in  heaven. 
Thou  art  a  traifbr,  and  a  miscreant; 
Too  good  to  be  so,  and  too  bad  to  live ; 
Since,  the  more  fair  and  crystal  is  the  sky, 
The  uglier  seem  the  clouds  that  in  it  fly. 
Once  more,  the  more  to  aggravate  the  note, 
With  a  foul  traitor's  name  stuff  I  thy  throat ; 
And  wish,  (so  please  my  sovereign,)  ere  I  move, 
What  my  tongue  speaks,  my  right-drawn  sword 

may  prove. 
Nor.  Let  not  my  cold  words  here  accuse  my 

zeal : 
'T  is  not  the  trial  of  a  woman's  war. 
The  bitter  clamour  of  two  eager  tongues, 
Can  arbitrate  this  cause  betwixt  us  twain  : 
The  blood  is  hot,  that  must  be  cool'd  for  this, 
Yet  can  I  not  of  such  tame  patience  boast, 


ACT  I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE  I. 


As  to  be  hush'd,  and  naught  at  all  to  say : 
First,  the  fair  reverence  of  your  highness  curbs  me 
From  giving  reins  and  spurs  to  my  free  speech ; 
Which  else  would  post,  until  it  had  return'd 
These  terms  of  treason  doubled  down  his  throat. 
Setting  aside  his  high  blood's  royalty, 
And  let  him  be  no  kinsman  to  my  liege, 
I  do  defy  him,  and  I  spit  at  him  ; 
Call  him — a  slanderous  coward,  and  a  villain  : 
Which  to  maintain,  I  would  allow  him  odds ; 
And  meet  him,  were  I  tied  to  run  a-foot 
Even  to  the  frozen  ridges  of  the  Alps, 
Or  any  other  ground  inhabitable' 
Where  ever  Englishman  durst  set  his  foot. 
Mean  time,  let  this  defend  my  loyalty, — 
By  all  my  hopes,  most  falsely  doth  he  lie. 

Boling.  Pale  trembling  coward,  there  I  throw 
my  gage, 
Disclaiming  here  the  kindred  of  a  king. 
And  lay  aside  my  high  blood's  royalty, 
Which  fear,  not  reverence,  makes  thee  to  except: 
If  guilty  dread  hath  left  thee  so  much  strength, 
As  to  take  up  mine  honour's  pawn,  then  stoop  ; 
By  that,  and  all  the  rights  of  knighthood  else, 
Will  I  make  good  against  thee,  arm  to  arm, 
What  I  have  spoke,  or  thou  canst  worse  devise. 

Nor.  I  take  it  up  ;  and,  by  that  sword  I  swear, 
Which    gently    lay'd    my    knighthood    on    my 

shoulder, 
I  '11  answer  thee  in  any  fair  degree, 
Or  chivalrous  design  of  knightly  trial : 
And,  when  I  mount,  alive  may  I  not  light, 
If  I  be  traitor,  or  unjustly  fight ! 

K.  Rich.  What  doth  our  cousin  lay  to  Mow- 
bray's charge  ? 
It  must  be  great,  that  can  inherit  us 
So  much  as  of  a  thought  of  ill  in  him.^ 

Boling.  Look,  what  I  speak  my  life  shall  prove 
it  true ; — 
That  Mowbray  hath  receiv'd  eight  thousand  nobles, 
In  name  of  lendings  for  your  highness*  soldiers  ; 
The  which  he  hath  detain'd  for  lewd  employments, 
Like  a  false  traitor,  and  injurious  villain. 
Besides  I  say,  and  will  iu  battle  prove, — 
Or  here,  or  elsewhere,  to  the  furthest  verge 
That  ever  was  survey'd  by  English  eye, — 
That  all  the  treasons,  for  these  eighteen  years 
Complotted  and  contrived  in  this  land. 
Fetch  from  false  Mowbray  their  first   head  and 

spring. 
Further  I  say, — and  further  will  maintain 
Upon  his  bad  life,  to  make  all  this  good, — 


That  he  did  plot  the  duke  of  Gloster's  death  \ 
Suggest  his  soon-believing  adversaries  ; 
And,  consequently,  like  a  traitor  coward, 
Sluic'd  out  his  innocent  soul  through  streams  of 

blood  : 
Which  blood,  like  sacrificing  Abel's,  cries, 
Even  from  the  tongueless  caverns  of  the  earth, 
To  me,  for  justice,  and  rough  chastisement ; 
And,  by  the  glorious  worth  of  my  descent, 
This  arm  shall  do  it,  or  this  life  be  spent. 

K.  Rich.   How  high    a    pitch    his    resolutid 
soars ! — 
Thomas  of  Norfolk,  what  say'st  thou  to  this  ? 

Nor.  O,  let  my  sovereign  turn  away  his  face, 
And  bid  his  ears  a  little  while  be  deaf, 
Till  I  have  told  this  slander  of  his  blood,' 
How  God,  and  good  men,  hate  so  foul  a  liar. 

K.  Rich.  Mowbray,  impartial  are  our  eyes  and 
ears  : 
Were  he  my  brother,  nay,  my  kingdom's  heir, 
(As  he  is  but  my  fother's  brother's  son,) 
Now  by  my  sceptre's  awe  I  make  a  vow. 
Such  neighbour  nearness  to  our  sacred  blood 
Should  nothing  privilege  him,  nor  partialize 
The  unstooping  firmness  of  my  upright  soul  ; 
He  is  our  subject,  Mowbray,  so  art  thou  ; 
Free  speech,  and  fearless,  I  to  thee  allow. 

Nor.   Then,  Bolingbroke,  as    low   as   to    thy 
heart. 
Through  the  false  passage  of  thy  throat,  thou  liest 
Three  parts  of  that  receipt  I  had  for  Calais 
Disburs'd  I  duly  to  his  highness'  soldiers : 
The  other  part  reserv'd  I  by  consent ; 
For  that  my  sovereign  liege  was  in  my  debt, 
Upon  remainder  of  a  clear  account, 
Since  last  I  went  to  France  to  fetch  his  queen 

Now  swallow  down  that  lie. For  Glos  er's 

death, 

I  slew  him  not ;  but  to  my  own  disgrace, 
Neglected  my  sworn  duty  in  that  case. — 
For  you,  my  noble  lord  of  Lancaster, 
The  honourable  father  to  my  foe, 
Once  did  I  lay  an  ambush  for  your  life, 
A  trespass  that  doth  vex  my  grieved  soul : 
But,  ere  I  last  receiv'd  the  sacrament, 
I  did  confess  it ;  and  exactly  begg'd 
Your  grace's  pardon,  and  I  hope,  I  had  it. 
This  is  my  fault:  As  for  the  rest  appeal'd, 
It  issues  fi'om  the'  rancour  of  a  villain, 
A  recreant  and  most  degenerate  traitor : 
Which  in  myself  I  boldly  will  defend  ; 
And  interchangeably  hurl  down  my  gage 

686 


ACT  I, 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


S(!ENE  n. 


Upon  this  overweening  traitor's  foot, 

To  prove  myself  a  loyal  gentleman 

Even  in  the  best  blood  chamber'd  in  his  bosom : 

In  haste  whereof,  most  heartily  I  pray 

Your  highness  to  assign  our  trial  day. 

K.  Rich.    Wrath-kindled  gentlemen,  be  rul'd 
by  me ; 
Let 's  purge  this  choler  without  letting  blood  : 
This  we  prescribe  though  no  physician  ; 
Deep  malice  makes  too  deep  incision  : 
Forget,  forgive ;  conclude,  and  be  agreed ; 
Our  doctors  say,  this  is  no  time  to  bleed. — 
Good  uncle,  let  this  end  where  it  begun  ; 
We'll  calm  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  you  your  son. 

Gaunt.  To  be  a  make-peace  shall  become  my 
age:— 
Throw  down,  my  son,  the  duke  of  Norfolk's  gage. 

K.  Rich.  And,  Norfolk,  throw  down  his. 

Gaunt.  AVhen,  Harry  ?  when  ? 

Obedience  bids,  I  should  not  bid  again. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  throw  down ;  we  bid  ;  there 
is  no  boot.'' 

Nor.  Myself  I  throw,  dread  sovereign,  at  thy 
foot: 
My  life  thou  shalt  command,  but  not  my  shame : 
The  one  my  duty  owes !  but  my  fair  name, 
(Despite  of  death,  that  lives  upon  my  grave,) 
To  dark  dishonour's  use  thou  shalt  not  have. 
I  am  disgrac'd,  impeach'd,  and  baffled  here ; 
Pierc'd  to  the  soul  with  slander's  venom'd  spear : 
The  which  no  balm  can  cure,  but  his  heart-blood 
Which  breath'd  this  poison. 

K.  Rich.  Rage  must  be  withstood  : 

Give  me  his  gage : — Lions  make  leopards  tame. 

Nor.  Yea,  but  not  change   their  spots :   take 
but  my  shame, 
And  I  resign  my  gage.     My  deai-,  dear  lord. 
The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford. 
Is — spotless  reputation ;  that  away, 
Men  are  but  gilded  loam,  or  painted  clay. 
A  jewel  in  a  ten-times- barr'd-up  chest 
Is — a  bold  spirit  in  a  loyal  breast. 
Mine  honour  is  my  life ;  both  grow  in  one ; 
Take  honour  from  me,  and  my  life  is  done : 
Then,  dear  my  liege,  mine  honour  let  me  try ; 
In  that  I  live,  and  for  that  will  I  die. 

K.  Rich.  Cousin,  throw  down  your  gage ;    do 
you  begin. 

B')ling.  O,  God  defend  my  soul  from  such  foul 
sin! 
Shall  I  seem  crest-fallen  in  my  fathers  sight  ? 
Or  with  pale  beggar  fear  impeach  my  height 
686 


Before  this  outdar'd  dastard  ?  Ere  my  tongue 
Shall  wound  mine  honour  with  such  feeble  wrong, 
Or  sound  so  base  a  parle,  ray  teeth  shall  tear 
The  slavish  motive'  of  recanting  fear  ; 
And  spit  it  bleeding  in  his  high  disgrace. 
Where  shame  doth  harbour,  even  in  Mowbray's 

face.  \^Exit  Gaunt. 

K.  Rich.  We   were  not  born   to   sue,   but  to 

command : 
Which  since  we  cannot  do  to  make  you  friends. 
Be  ready,  as  your  lives  shall  answer  it. 
At  Coventry,  upon  Saint  Lambert's  day  ; 
There  shall  your  swords  and  lances  arbitrate 
The  swelling  diftereflce  of  your  settled  hate; 
Since  we  cannot  atone  you,  we  shall  see 
Justice  design  the  victor's  chivalry. — 
Marshal,  command  our  officers  at  arms 
Be  ready  to  direct  these  home-alarms.      \_Exeunt 

SCENE  IL— The  Same.    A  Room  in  the  Duke  o! 
Lancaster's  Palace. 

Enter  Gaunt,  and  Duchess  of  Gloster. 

Gaunt.  Alas  !  the  part  I  had  in  Gloster's  blood' 
Doth  more  solicit  me,  than  your  exclaims. 
To  stir  against  the  butchers  of  his  life.  ,   • 

But  since  correction  lieth  in  those  hands. 
Which  made  the  fault  that  we  cannot  correct. 
Put  we  our  quarrel  to  the  will  of  heaven ; 
Who  when  he  sees  the  hours  ripe  on  earth, 
Will  rain  hot  vengeance  on  offenders'  heads. 
Duch.  Finds  brotherhood  in   thee  no  sharper 

spur  ? 
Hath  love  in  thy  old  blood  no  living  fire  ? 
Ed  ward's  seven  sons,  whereof  thyself  art  one, 
Were  as  seven  phials  of  his  sacred  blood, 
Or  seven  fair  branches  springing  from  one  root: 
Some  of  those  seven  are  dried  by  nature's  course, 
Some  of  those  branches  by  the  destinies  cut : 
But  Thomas,  my  dear  lord,  my  life,  my  Gloster, — 
One  phial  full  of  Edward's  sacred  blood. 
One  flourishing  branch  of  his  most  royal  root, — 
Is  crack'd,  and  all  the  precious  liquor  spilt ; 
Is  hack'd  down,  and  his  summer  leaves  all  faded, 
By  envy's  hand,  and  murder's  bloody  axe. 
Ah,  Gaunt!  his  blood  was  thine;  that  bed,  that 

womb, 
That  mettle,  that  self-mould,  that  fashion'd  thee, 
Made  him  a  man  ;  and  though  thou  liv'st,  and 

breath'st. 
Yet  art  thou  slain  in  him  :  thou  dost  consent 
In  some  large  measure  to  thy  father's  death, 


Wm 


SSISMliiclima^ .  a^  MmrilAcli^Si'!" 


T/te:  i'rfu.re    £>/'  A^zs    az-ri'va-l  here  in,  /irmj/ 


ACT    1      SCKKl-: 


rr 


ACT   I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE  in. 


In  that  thou  seest  thy  wretched  brother  die, 
Who  was  the  model  of  thy  father's  life. 
Call  it  not  patience,  Gaunt,  it  is  despair : 
In  suffering  thus  thy  brother  to  be  slaughter'd, 
Thou  show'st  the  naked  pathway  to  thy  life, 
Teaching  stern  murder  how  to  butcher  thee  : 
That  which  in  mean  men  we  entitle — patience. 
Is  pale  cold  cowardice  in  noble  breasts. 
What  shall  I  say  ?  to  safeguard  thine  own  life, 
The  best  way  is — to  'venge  my  Gloster's  death. 
Gaunt.  Heaven's  is  the  quarrel ;  for  heaven's 

substitute. 
His  deputy  anointed  in  his  fight, 
Hath  caus'd  his  death :  the  which  if  wrongfully. 
Let  heaven  revenge ;  for  I  may  never  lift 
An  angry  arm  against  his  minister. 

Duch.   Where   then,    alas !    may   I   complain 

myself?  "^ 

Gaunt.  To  heaven,  the  widow's  champion  and 

defence. 
Duch,  Why  then,  I  will.    Farewell,  old  Gaunt. 
Thou  go'st  to  Coventry,  there  to  behold 
Our  cousin  Hereford  and  fell  Mowbray  fight : 
O,  sit  my  husband's  wrongs  on  Hereford's  spear, 
That  it  may  enter  butcher  Mowbray's  breast ! 
Or,  if  misfoilime  miss  the  first  career, 
Be  Mowbray's  sins  so  heavy  in  his  bosom. 
That  they  may  break  his  foaming  courser's  back, 
And  throw  the  rider  headlong  in  the  lists, 
A.  caitiff  recreant  to  my  cousin  Hereford  ! 
Farewell,   old   Gaunt;    thy   sometimes    brother's 

wife. 
With  her  companion  grief  must  end  her  life. 

Gaunt.  Sister,  farewell :  I  must  to  Coventry  : 
As  much  good  stay  with  thee,  as  go  with  me ! 
Duch.  Yet  one  word  more ; — Grief  boundeth 

where  it  falls, 
Not  with  the  empty  hollowness,  but  weight : 
I  take  my  leave  before  I  have  begun ; 
For  sorrow  ends  not  when  it  seemeth  done. 
Commend  me  to  my  brother,  Edmund  York. 
Lo,  this  is  all : — Nay,  yet  depart  not  so ; 
Though  this  be  all,  do  not  so  quickly  go ; 
I  shall  remember  more.     Bid  him — O,  what  ? — 
With  all  good  speed  at  Plashy  visit  me. 
Alack,  and  what  shall  good  old  York  there  see, 
But  empty  lodgings  and  unfurnish'd  walls, 
Unpeopled  offices,  untrodden  stones  ? 
And  what  cheer  there  for  welcome,  but  my  groans  ? 
Therefore  commend  me;  let  him  not  come  there. 
To  seek,  out  sorrow  that  dwells  every  where : 
Desolate,  desolate,  will  I  hence,  and  die  ; 


The  last  leave  of  thee  takes  my  weeping  eye. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  III.  — Gosford  Green,  near  Coventry. 
Lists  set  out,  and  a  Throne.  Heralds,  &c.. 
attending. 

Enter  the  Loud  Marshal,  and  Aumerle.' 

Mar.    My  lord   Aumerle,    is    Harry  Hereford 

arm'd  ? 
Aum.  Yea,  at  all  points ;  and  longs  to  enter  in. 
Mar.  The  duke  of  Norfolk,   sprightfully   and 
bold. 
Stays  but  the  summons  of  the  appellant's  trumpet. 
Aum.  Why  then,  the  champions  are  prepar'd, 
and  stay 
For  nothing  but  his  majesty's  approach. 

Flourish  of  Trumpets.  Enter  King  Richard, 
who  takes  his  seat  on  his  Throne;  Gaunt,  and 
several  Noblemen,  who  take  their  places.  A 
Trumpet  is  sounded,  and  answered  hy  anothei 
Trump)et  within.  Then  enter  Norfolk  in  ar- 
mour, preceded  hy  a  Herald. 

K.  Rich.  Marshal,  demand  of  yonder  champion 
The  cause  of  his  arrival  here  in  arms  : 
Ask  him  his  name ;  and  orderly  proceed 
To  swear  hira  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  In  God's  name,  and  the  king's,  say  who 
thou  art. 
And  why  thou  com'st,  thus  knightly  clad  in  arras : 
Against  what  man   thou   com'st,  and  what  thy 

quarrel : 
Speak  truly,  on  thy  knighthood,  and  thy  oath ; 
And  so  defend  thee  heaven,  and  thy  valour ! 

Nor.  My  name  is  Thomas  Mowbray,  duke  of 
Norfolk ; 
Who  hither  come  engaged  by  my  oath, 
(Which,  heaven  defend,  a  knight  should  violate !) 
Both  to  defend  my  loyalty  and  truth, 
To  God,  my  king,  and  my  succeeding  issue, 
Against  the  duke  of  Hereford  that  appeals  me ; 
And,  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  this  mine  arm. 
To  prove  him,  in  defending  of  myself, 
A  traitor  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  me  : 
And,  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven  ! 

[He  takes  his  seat. 

Trumpet  sounds.     Enter   Bolingbroke,   in   ar- 
mour ;  2}receded  by  a  Herald. 

AT.  liich.  Marshal,  ask  yonder  knight  in  arras, 
Both  who  he  is,  and  why  he  coraeth  hither 

687 


! 


I  t 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND 


SCENE    III. 


Tims  plated  in  habiliments  of  war  ; 
And  formally  according  to  our  law 
Depose  him  in  the  justice  of  his  cause. 

Mar.  What  is  thy  wime?  and  wherefore  com'st 

thou  hither, 
Before  king  Richard,  in  his  royal  lists  ? 
Against   whom  coraest   thou  ?    and   what 's   thy 

quarrel  ? 
Speak  like  a  true  knight,  so  defend  thee  heaven  ! 
Boling.    Harry  of   Hereford,   Lancaster,   and 

Derby, 
Am  I ;  who  ready  here  do  stand  in  arms, 
To  prove,  by  heaven's  grace,  and  my  body's  valour. 
In  lists,  on  Thomas  Mowbray  duke  of  Norfolk, 
That  he  's  a  traitor,  foul  and  dangerous, 
To  God  of  heaven,  king  Richard,  and  to  me  ; 
And,  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven ! 

Mar.  On  pain  of  death,  no  person  be  so  bold, 
Or  daring-hardy,  as  to  touch  the  lists ; 
Except  the  marshal,  and  such  officers 
Appointed  to  direct  these  fair  designs. 

Boling.  Lord  marshal,  let  me  kiss  my  sovereign's 

hand, 
And  bow  my  knee  before  his  majesty: 
For  Mowbray,  and  myself,  are  like  two  men 
That  vow  a  long  and  weary  pilgrimage ; 
i'heu  let  us  take  a  ceremonious  leave, 
And  loving  farewell,  of  our  several  friends. 

Mar.    The  appellant   in  all  duty  greets   your 

highness, 
And  craves  to  kiss  your  hand,  and  take  his  leave. 
K.  Rich.  We  will  descend,  and  fold  him  in  our 

arms. 
Cousin  of  Hereford,  as  thy  cause  is  right, 
So  be  thy  fortune  in  this  royal  fight ! 
Farewell,  my  blood  ;  which  if  to-day  thou  shed. 
Lament  we  may,  but  not  revenge  thee  dead. 
Boling.  O,  lot  no  noble  eye  profane  a  tear 
For  me,  if  I  be  gor'd  with  Mowbray's  spear  ; 
As  confident,  as  is  the  falcon's  flight 

Against  a  bird,  do  I  with  Mowbray  fight. 

My  loving  lord,  [To  Lord  Mar.]  I  take  my  leave 

of  you  ;— 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin,  lord  Aumerle  : — 
Not  sick,  although  I  have  to  do  with  death  ; 

But  lusty,  young,  and  cheerly  drawing  breath. 

Lo,  as  at' English  feasts,  so  I  regreet 

The  daintiest  last,  to  make  the  end  most  sweet ; 

0  thou,  the  earthly  author  of  my  blood, — 

[To  Gaunt. 
Whose  youthful  spirit,  in  me  regenerate, 
Doth  with  a  two-fold  vigour  lift  me  up 

688 


To  reach  at  victory  above  my  head, — 
Add  proof  unto  mine  armour  with  thy  prayers; 
And  with  thy  blessings  steel  my  lance's  point, 
That  it  may  enter  Mowbray's  waxen  coat. 
And  furbish  new  the  name  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
Even  in  the  lusty  'haviour  of  his  son. 

Gaunt.  Heaven  in  thy  good  cause  make  thee 


prosperous 


Be  swift  like  lightning  in  the  execution  ; 
And  let  thy  blows,  doubly  redoubled. 
Fall  like  amazing  thunder  on  the  casque 
Of  thy  adverse  pernicious  enemy  : 
Rouse    up  thy    }outhful    blood,   be    valiant   and 
hve. 

Boling,  Mine  innoceucy,  and  Saint  George  to 
thrive  !  [He  takes  his  seat. 

Nor.  [Rising^  However  heaven,  or  fortune,  cast 
my  l<?t. 
There  lives  or  dies,  true  to  king  Richard's  throne, 
A  loyal,  just,  and  upriglit  gentleman  : 
Never  did  captive  with  a  freer  heart 
Cast  oJ5"  his  chains  of  bondage,  and  embrace 
His  golden  uncontroll'd  enfranchisement, 
More  than  my  dancing  soul  doth  celebrate 
This  feast  of  battle  with  mine  adversary. — 
Most  mighty  liege, — and  my  companion  peers, — 
Take  from  my  mouth  the  wish  of  happy  years  : 
As  gentle  and  as  jocund,  as  to  jest. 
Go  I  to  fight :  Truth  hath  a  quiet  breast. 

K.  Rich.  Farewell,  my  lord :  securely  I  espy 

Virtue  with  valour  couched  in  thine  eye. 

Order  the  trial,  marshal,  and  begin. 

[The  King  and  the  Lords  return  to  their  seats. 

Mar.  Harry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
Receive  thy  lance ;  and  God  defend  the  right  1 

Boling.  [Rising.]  Strong  as  a  tower  in  hope,  I 
cry — amen. 

Mar.    Go  bear  this  lance  [To  an  Ofiicer]  to 
Thomas  duke  of  Norfolk. 

1st  Her.    Harry   of  Hereford,  Lancaster,   and 
Derby, 
Stands  here  for  God,  his  sovereign,  and  himself. 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  and  recreant. 
To  prove  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  Mowbray, 
A  traitor  to  his  God,  his  king,  and  him. 
And  dares  him  to  set  forward  to  the  fight. 

2.nd  Her.    Here   standeth   Thomas  Mowbi-  7, 
duke  of  Norfolk, 
On  pain  to  be  found  false  an;l  recreant. 
Both  to  defend  himself,  and  to  approve 
Henry  of  Hereford,  Lancaster,  and  Derby, 
To  God,  his  sovereign,  and  to  him,  disloyal ; 


ACT   I. 


KING  PJCIIARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    ni 


Courageously,  and  with  a  free  desire, 
Attending  but  the  signal  to  begin. 

Mar.  Sound,  trumpets ;  and  set  forward,  com- 
batants. \^A  Charge  sounded. 
Stay,  the  king  hath  thrown  his  warder  down.^ 
K.  Rich.  Let  them  lay  by  their  helmets  and 
their  spears, 

And  both  return  back  to  their  chairs  again  : 

Withdraw  with  us : — and  let  the  trumpets  sound. 
While  we  return  these  dukes  what  we  decree. — 

\^A  long  flourish. 
Draw  near.  \To  the  Combatants. 

And  list,  what  with  our  council,  we  have  done. 
For  that  our  kingdom's  earth  should  not  be  soil'd 
With  that  dear  blood  which  it  hath  fostered ; 
And  for  our  eyes  do  hate  the  dire  aspect 
Of  civil  wounds  plough'd  up  with  neighbours' 

swords ; 
[And  for  we  think  the  eagle-winged  pride 
Of  sky -aspiring  and  ambitious  thoughts, 
With  rival-hating  envy,  set  you  on 
To  wake  our  peace,  which  in  our  country's  cradle 
Draws  the  sweet  infant  breath  of  gentle  sleep  ;] 
Which  so  rous'd  up  with  boisterous  untun'd  drums, 
With  harsh  resounding  trumpets'  dreadful  bray. 
And  grating  shock  of  wrathful  iron  arms. 
Might  from  our  quiet  confines  fright  fair  peace, 
And  make  us  wade  even  in  our  kindred's  blood  ; — 

Therefoie,  we  banish  you  our  territories  : 

You,  cousin  Hereford,  upon  pain  of  death, 
Till  twice  five  summers  have  eurich'd  our  fields, 
Shall  not  regreet  our  fair  dominions. 
But  tread  the  stranger  paths  of  banishment. 
Baling.    Your  will  be  done :    This  must  my 

comfort  be, 

That  sun,  that  warms  you  here,  shall  shine  on  me  ; 
And  those  his  golden  beams,  to  you  here  lent, 
Shall  point  on  me,  and  gild  my  banishment. 
K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  for  thee  remains  a  heavier 
doom. 
Which  1  with  some  unwillingness  pronounce  : 
The  fly-slow  hours  shall  not  determinate 
The  dateless  limit  of  thy  dear  exile  ; — 
Tlie  hopeless  word  of — never  to  return, 
Breathe  I  against  thee,  upon  pain  of  life. 

Nor.   A   heavy  sentence,  ray  most  sovereign 
liege, 
A.nd  all  unlook'd  for  from  your  highness'  mouth  : 
A  dearer  merit,  not  so  deep  a  maim 
As  to  be  cast  forth  in  the  common  air. 
Have  T  deserved  at  your  highness'  hand. 
The  language  I  have  learn'd  these  forty  years, 

87 


My  native  English,  now  I  must  forego: 
And  now  my  tongue's  use  is  to  me  no  more 
Than  an  unstringed  viol  or  a  harp ; 
Or  like  a  cunning  instrument  cas'd  up, 
Or,  being  open,  put  into  his  hands 
That  knows  no  touch  to  tune  the  harmony. 
Within  my  mouth  you  have  engoal'd  my  tongue, 
Doubly  portcullis'd,  with  my  teeth,  and  lips ; 
And  dull,  unfeeling,  barren  ignorance 
Is  made  my  goaler  to  attend  on  me. 
I  am  too  old  to  fawn  upon  a  nurse, 
Too  far  in  years  to  be  a  pupil  now ; 
What  is  thy  sentence  then,  but  speechless  death, 
Which  robs  my  tongue  from  breathing  native 
breath  ? 
K.  Rich.   It  boots  thee  not  to  be  compas- 
sionate;» 
After  our  sentence,  plaining  comes  too  late. 
Nor.  Then  thus  I  turn  me  from  my  country's 
light, 
To  dwell  in  solemn  shades  of  endless  night. 

\Retiring. 
K.  Rich.  Return  again,  and  take  an  oath  with 
thee. 
Lay  on  our  royal  sword  your  banish'd  hands ; 
Swear  by  the  duty  that  you  owe  to  heaven, 
(Our  part  therein  we  banish  with  yourselves,) 
To  keep  the  oath  that  we  administer  : — 
You  never  shall  (so  help  you  truth  and  heaven  1) 
Embrace  each  other's  love  in  banishment ; 
Nor  never  look  upon  each  other's  face  ; 
Nor  never  write,  regreet,  nor  reconcile 
This  lowering  tempest  of  your  home-bred  hate  ; 
Nor  never  by  advised  purpose  meet. 
To  plot,  contrive,  or  complot  any  ill, 
'Gainst  us,  our  state,  our  subjects,  or  our  land. 
Boling.  I  swear. 
Nor.  And  I,  to  keep  all  this. 
Boling.  Norfolk,  so  far  as  to  mine  enemy ; — 
By  this  time,  had  the  king  permitted  us. 
One  of  our  souls  had  wander'd  in  the  air, 
Banish'd  this  frail  sepulchre  of  our  flesh. 
As  now  our  flesh  is  banish'd  from  this  land : 
Confess  thy  treasons,  ere  thou  fly  the  realm  ; 
Since  thou  hast  far  to  go,  bear  not  along 
The  clogging  burden  of  a  guilty  soul. 

Nor.  No,  Bolingbroke  ;  if  ever  I  were  traitor. 
My  name  be  blotted  from  the  book  of  life, 
And  I  from  heaven  banish'd,  as  from  hence ! 
But  what  thou  art,  heaven,  thou,  and  I  do  know ; 
And  all  too  soon,  I  fear,  the  king  shall  rue. — 
Farewell,  my  liege : — Now  no  way  can  I  stray ; 

689 


ACT   I. 


KING  RICHAED  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    III. 


Save  back  to  England,  all  the  world  's  my  way. 

{Exit. 
K.  Rich.  Uncle   even  in  the  glasses  of  thine 
eyes 
I  see  thy  grieved  heart :  thy  sad  aspect 
Hath  from  the  number  of  his  banish'd  years 
Pluck'd  four  away  ; — Six  frozen  winters  spent, 
Return  \To  Boling.]  with  welcome  home  from 
j  I  banishment. 

j  Boling.  How  long  a  time  lies  in  one  little  word  ! 

j         Four  lagging  winters,  and  four  wanton  springs, 
I         End  in  a  word :  Such  is  the  breath  of  kings. 
I  j  Gaunt.  I  thank  my  liege,  that,  in   regard  of 

;  I  ^^6, 

.         He  shortens  four  yeai-s  of  my  son's  exile : 
i  j       But  little  vantage  shall  I  reap  thereby  ; 
i  i       For,  ere  the  six  years,  that  he  hath  to  spend, 
1  I       Can  change  their  moons,  and  bring  their  times 
j  about, 

j         My  oil-dried  lamp,  and  time-bewasted  light, 
I  j       Shall  be  extinct  with  age,  and  endless  night ; 
j  I       My  inch  of  taper  will  be  burnt  and  done, 
j  !       And  blindfold  death  not  let  me  see  my  son. 
I  i  K.  Rich.  Why,  uncle,  thou  hast  many  years  to 

live. 
Gaunt.    But  not  a    minute,  king,  that    thou 
canst  give : 
►Shorten  my  days  thou  canst  with  sullen  sorrow, 
And  pluck  nights  from  me,  but  not  lend  a  morrow : 
Thou  canst  help  time  to  furrow  me  with  age, 
But  stop  no  wrinkle  in  his  pilgrimage ; 
Thy  word  is  current  with  him  for  my  death ; 
But,  dead,  thy  kingdom  cannot  buy  my  breath. 

IC.  Rich.  Thy  son  is  banish'd  upon  good  advice, 
Whereto  thy  tongue  a  party-verdict  gave  ; 
Why  at  our  justice  seem'st  thou  then  to  lower  ? 
Gaunt.  Things  sweet  to  taste,  pi'ove  in  digestion 
sour. 
You  urg'd  me  as  a  judge  ;  but  I  had  rather. 
You  would  have  bid  me  argue  like  a  father : — 
O,  had  it  been  a  stranger,  not  my  child, 
To  smooth  his  fault  I  should  have  been  more  mild : 
A  partial  slander  sought  I  to  avoid. 
And  in  the  sentence  my  own  life  destroy'd. 
Alas,  I  look'd,  when  some  of  you  should  say, 
I  was  too  strict,  to  make  mine  own  away ; 
i>ut  you  gave  leave  to  my  unwilling  tongue, 
,   Against  my  will,  to  do  myself  this  wrong. 

JT.  Rich.  Cousin,  farewell : — and,  uncle,  bz'd  him 
so; 
Six  years  we  banish  him,  and  he  shall  go. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt  K.  Rich,  and  Train. 
690 


Aum.  Cousin,  farewell :    what  presence  must 
not  know, 
From  where  you  do  remain,  let  pape;  show. 

Mar.  My  lord,  no  leave  take  I ;  for  I  wiU  ride, 
As  far  as  land  will  let  me,  by  your  side. 

Gaunt.  O,  to  what  purpose  dost  thou  hoard  thj 
words, 
That  thou  return'st  no  greeting  to  thy  friends  ? 

Boling.  I  have  too  few  to  take  my  leave  of  you, 
When  the  tongue's  office  should  be  prodigal 
To  breathe  the  abundant  dolour  of  the  heart. 

Gaunt.  Thy  grief  is  but  thy  absence  for  a  time. 

Boling.  Joy  absent,  grief  is  present  for  that  time. 

Gaunt.  What  is  six  winters  ?  they  are  quicklj 
gone. 

Boling.  To  men  in  joy ;  but  grief  makes  one 
hour  ten. 

Gaunt.  Call  it  a  travel  that  thou  tak'st  for  plea 
sure. 

Boling.  My  heart  will  sigh,  when  I  miscall  it  so, 
Which  finds  it  an  enforced  pilgrimage. 

Gaunt.  The  sullen  passage  of  thy  weary  steps 
Esteem  a  foil,  wherein  thou  art  to  set 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  home-return. 

.Boling.  Nay,  rather,  every  tedious  stride  I  make 
Yr^ill  but  remember  me,  what  a  deal  of  world 
I  wander  from  the  jewels  that  I  love. 
Must  I  not  serve  a  long  apprenticehood 
To  foreign  passages ;  and  in  the  end. 
Having  my  freedom,  boast  of  nothing  else. 
But  that  I  was  a  journeyman  to  grief? 

Gaunt.  All  places  that  the  eye  of  heaven  visits, 
Are  to  a  wise  man  ports  and  happy  havens : 
Teach  thy  necessity  to  reason  thus ; 
There  is  no  virtue  like  necessity. 
Think  not,  the  king  did  banish  thee ; 
But  thou  the  king :  Woe  doth  the  heavier  sit, 
Where  it  perceives  it  is  but  faintly  borne. 
Go,  say — I  sent  thee  forth  to  purchase  honor, 
And  not — the  king  exil'd  thee :  or  suppose, 
Devouring  pestilence  hangs  in  our  air, 
And  thou  art  flying  to  a  fresher  clime. 
Look,  what  thy  soul  holds  dear,  imagine  it 
To  lie  that  way  thou  go'st,  not  whence  thou  com'st ' 
Suppose  the  singing  birds,  musicians  ; 
The   grass  whereon    thou   tread'st,  the  presence 

strew'd ; 
The  flowers,  fair  ladies ;  and  thy  steps,  no  more 
Than  a  delightful  measure,  or  a  dance : 
For  gnarling  sorrow  hath  less  power  to  bite 
The  man  tl  at  mocks  at  it,  and  sets  it  light. 

Boling.  0,  who  can  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand, 


> 


KING  RICHARU  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    IV. 


Bj  thinking  on  the  frosty  Caucasus  ? 
Or  cloy  the  hungrj'  edge  of  appetite, 
By  bare  imagination  of  a  feast  ? 
Or  wallow  naked  in  December  snow, 
By  thinking  on  fantastic  summer's  heat  ? 
O,  no  !  the  apprehension  of  the  good, 
Gives  but  the  greater  feeling  to  the  worse : 
Fell  sorrow's  tooth  doth  never  rankle  more, 
Than  when  it  bites,  but  lanceth  not  the  sore. 
Gaunt.  Como,  come,  my  son,  I  '11  bring  thee  on 

thy  way : 
Had  I  thy  youth,  and  cause,  I  would  not  stay. 
Boling.  Then, England's  ground,  farewell;  sweet 

soil,  adieu; 
My  mother,  and  my  nurse,  that  bears  me  yet ! 

Where-e'er  I  wander,  boast  of  this  I  can, 

Though  banish'd,  yet  a  trueborn  Englishman, 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Boom  in  the  King's 
Castle. 

Enter  King  Richard,  Bagot,  and  Green  ; 

AUMERLE  following. 

K.  Rich.  We  did  observe. — Cousin  Aumerle, 
How  far  brought  you  high  Hereford  on  his  way  ? 
Aum.  I  brought  high  Hereford,  if  you  call  him 
so. 
But  to  the  next  highway,  and  there  I  left  him. 
K.  Rich.  And,  say,  what  stoi-e  of  parting  tears 

were  shed  ? 
Aum.  'Faith  none  by  me:  except  the  north-east 
wind, 
Which  then  blew  bitterly  against  our  faces, 
Awak'd  the  sleeping  rheum  :  and  so,  by  chance. 
Did  grace  our  hollow  parting  with  a  tear. 

K.  Rich.  What  said  our  cousin,  when  you  parted 

with  him  ? 
Auni.  Farewell : 
And,  for  my  heart  disdained  that  my  tongue 
Should  so  profane  the  word,  that  taught  me  craft 
To  counterfeit  oppression  of  such  grief, 
That  words  seem'd  buried  in  my  sorrow's  grave. 
Marry,  would  the  word  farewell  have  lengthen'd 

hours, 
And  added  years  to  his  short  banishment, 
He  should  have  had  a  volume  of  farewells  ; 
But,  since  it  would  not,  he  had  none  of  me. 
K.  Rich.  He  is  our  cousin,  cousin ;   but  't  is 
doubt, 
When  time  shall  call  him  home  from  banishment, 


Whether  our  kinsman  come  to  see  his  friends. 

Ourself,  and  Bushy,  Bagot  here,  and  Green, 

Observ'd  his  courtship  to  the  common  people : — 

How  he  did  seem  to  dive  into  their  hearts, 

With  humble  and  familiar  courtesy  ; 

What  reverence  he  did  throw  away  on  slaves ; 

Wooing  poor  craftsmen,  with  the  craft  of  smiles, 

And  patient  underbearing  of  his  fortune, 

As  't  were,  to  banish  their  affects  with  him. 

Off  goes  his  bonnet  to  an  oyster-wench  ; 

A  brace  of  draymen  bid — God  speed  him  well, 

And  had  the  tribute  of  his  supple  knee. 

With  —  "  Thanks,  my    countrymen,  my    loving 

friends ;" — 
As  were  our  England  in  reversion  his. 
And  he  our  subjects'  next  degree  in  hope. 

Green.  Well,  he  is  gone  ;  and  with  him  go  these 
thoughts. 
Now  for  the  rebels,  which  stand  out  in  Ireland ; — 
Expedient  manage  must  be  made,  my  liege ; 
Ere  further  leisure  yield  them  further  means, 
For  their  advantage,  and  your  highness'  loss. 

K.  Rich.  We  will  ourself  in  person  to  this  war. 
And,  for  our  coffers — with  too  great  a  court, 
And  liberal  largess, — are  grown  somewhat  light, 
We  are  enforc'd  to  farm  our  royal  realm ; 
The  revenue  whereof  shall  furnish  us 
For  our  affairs  in  hand  :  If  that  come  short, 
Our  substitutes  at  home  shall  have  blank  charters; 
Whereto,  when  they  shall  know  what  men  are 

rich. 
They  shall  subscribe  them  for  large  sums  of  gold, 
And  send  them  after  to  supply  our  wants  ; 
For  we  will  make  for  Ireland  presently. 

Enter  Bushy. 

Bushy,  what  news  ? 

Bush.  Old  John  of  Gaunt  is  grievous  sick,  my 
lord ; 
Suddenly  taken ;  and  hath  sent  post-haste, 
To  entreat  your  majesty  to  visit  him. 

K.  Rich.  Where  hes  he  ? 

Bushy.  At  Ely-house. 

K.  Rich.  Now  put  it,  heaven,  in  his  physician's 
mind, 
To  help  him  to  his  grave  immediately ! 
The  lining  of  his  coffers  shall  make  coats 
To  deck  our  soldiers  for  these  Irish  wars. — 
Come,  gentlemen,  let 's  all  go  visit  him  : 
Pray  God,  we  may  make  haste,  and  come  too 
late !  [Exeunt 


691 


KING  RICHAED  THE  SECOND. 


eCENB   1. 


ACT    II 


;  I 


i  I 


SCENE  I. — London.     A  Boom  in  Ely-house. 

Gaunt  on  a  Couch;  the  Duke  op  York,  and 
Others  standing  hy  him. 

Gaunt.  Will  the  king  come  ?  that  I  may  breathe 
my  last 
In  wholesome  counsel  to  his  unstaied  youth. 
York.  Vex  not  yourself,  nor  strive  not  with  your 
breath ; 
For  all  in  vain  comes  counsel  to  his  ear. 

Gaunt.  0,  but  they  say,  the  tongues  of  dying- 
men 
Enforce  attention,  like  deep  harmony : 
Where  words  are  scarce,  they  are  seldom  spent  in 

vain ; 
Foi-  they  breathe  truth,  that  breathe  their  words 

in  pain. 
He,  that  no  more  must  say,  is  listen'd  more 
Than  they  whom  youth  and  ease  have  taught 
to  glose ; 
More  are  men's  ends  mark'd,  than  their  lives  be- 
fore : 
The  setting  sun,  and  music  at  the  close. 
As  the  last  taste  of  sweets,  is  sweetest  last ; 
Writ  in  remembrance,  more  than  things  long  past : 
Though  Richard  my  life's  counsel  would  not  hear, 
My  death's  sad  tale  may  yet  undeaf  his  ear. 
York.  No  ;  it  is  stopp'd  with  other  flattering 
sounds. 
As,  praises  of  his  state ;  then,  there  are  found 
Lascivious  metres ;  to  whose  venom  sound 
The  open  ear  of  youth  doth  always  listen  ; 
Report  of  fashions  in  proud  Italy  ; 
Whose  manners  still  our  tardy  apish  nation 
Limps  after,  in  base  imitation. 
Where  doth  the  world  thrust  forth  a  vanity, 
(So  it  be  new,  there 's  no  respect  hov/  vile,) 
That  is  not  quickly  buzz'd  into  his  ears  ? 
Then  all  too  late  comes  counsel  to  be  heard, 
Where  will  doth  mutiny  with  wit's  regard. 
Direct  not  him,  whose  way  himself  will  choose  : 
'T  is  breath  tliou  lack'st,  and  that  breath  wilt  thou 
lose. 
Gaunt.  Methinks,  I  am  a  prophet  new  inspir'd  ; 
And  thus,  expiring,  do  foretell  of  him : 
His  rash  fierce  blaze  of  riot  cannot  last ; 
693 


For  violent  fires  soon  burn  out  themselves , 
Small  showei-s  last  long,  but  sudden  stoniis  ar< 

short ; 
He  tires  betimes,  that  spurs  too  fast  betimes ; 
With  eager  feeding,  food  doth  choke  the  feeder : 
Light  vanity,  insatiate  cormorant. 
Consuming  means,  soon  preys  upon  itself. 
This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  scepter'd  isle, 
This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 
This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise ; 
This  fortress,  built  by  nature  for  herself. 
Against  infection,  and  the  hand  of  war ; 
This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world ; 
This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 
Which  serves  it  in  the  ofiice  of  a  wall, 
Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house, 
Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands; 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  Eng 

land, 
This  nurse,  this  teeming  womb  of  royal  kings, 
Fear'd  by  their  breed,  and  famous  by  their  birth, 
Renowned  for  their  deeds  as  far  from  home, 
(For  Christ'an  service,  and  true  chivalry,) 
As  is  the  sepulchre  in  stubborn  Jewry, 
Of  the  world's  ransom,  blessed  Mary's  son  ; 
This  land  of  such  dear  souls,  this  dear,  dear  land. 
Dear  for  her  reputation  through  the  world, 
Is  now  leas'd  out  (I  die  pronouncing  it,) 
Like  to  a  tenement,  or  pelting  farm  : 
England,  bound  in  with  the  triumphant  sea. 
Whose  rocky  shore  beats  back  the  envious  siege 
Of  watery  Neptune,  is  now  bound  in  with  sham^ 
With  inky  blots,  and  rotten  parchment  bonds ;'" 
That  England,  that  was  wont  to  conquer  others. 
Hath  made  a  shameful  conquest  of  itself: 
O,  would  the  scandal  vanish  with  my  life. 
How  happy  then  were  my  ensuing  death ! 

Enter  Kino  Richard,  and  Queen  ;"  Aumerle, 
Bushy,    Green,    Bagot,    Ross,    and    Wil- 

LOUGHBT. 

York.  The  king  is  come :  deal  mildly  with  his 

youth ; 
For  young  hot  colts,  being  rag'd,  do  rage  the 

more." 
Queen.  How  fares  our  noble  uncle,  Lancaster  ? 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE   I. 


K.  Rich.  What  comfort,  man  ?     How  is 't  with 

aged  Gaunt  ? 
Gaunt.  O,  how  that  name  befits  my  composi- 
tion ! 
C)ld  Gaunt,  indeed  ;  and  gaunt  in  being  old : 
Within  me  grief  hath  kept  a  tedious  fast ; 
And  who  abstains  from  meat,  that  is  not  gaunt  ? 
For  sleeping  England  long  time  have  I  watch'd ; 
Watching  breeds  leanness,  leanness  is  all  gaunt ; 
The  jjleasure,  that  some  fathers  feed  upon, 
Is  my  strict  fast,  I  mean — my  children's  looks ; 
And,  therein  fasting,  hast  thou  made  me  gaunt : 
Gaunt  am  I  for  the  grave,  gaunt  as  a  grave, 
Whose  hollow  womb  inherits  nought  but  bones. 
K.  Rich.  Can  sick  men  play  so  nicely  with  their 

names  ? 
Gaunt.  No,  misery  makes  sport  to  mock  itself: 
Since  thou  dost  seek  to  kill  my  name  in  me, 
I  mock  my  name,  great  king,  to  flatter  thee. 
K,  Rich.  Should  dying  men  flatter  with  those 

that  live  ? 
Gaunt.  No,  no ;  men  living  flatter  those  that 

die. 
K.  Rich.  Thou,  now  a  dying,  say'st — thou  flat- 

ter'st  me. 
Gaunt.  Oh  !  no ;  thou  diest,  though  I  the  sicker 

be. 
K.  Rich.  I  am  in  health,  I  breathe,  and  see  thee 

ill. 
Gaunt.  Now,  He  that  made  me,  knows  I  see 

thee  ill ; 
111  in  myself  to  see,  and  in  thee  seeing  ill. 
Thy  death-bed  is  no  lesser  than  the  land. 
Wherein  thou  liest  in  reputation  sick : 
And  thou,  too  careless  patient  as  thou  art, 
Commit'st  thy  anointed  body  to  the  cure 
Of  those  physicians  that  first  wounded  thee. 
A  thousand  flatterers  sit  within  thy  crown. 
Whose  compass  is  no  bigger  than  thy  head ; 
And  yet,  incaged  in  so  small  a  verge, 
The  waste  is  no  whit  lesser  than  thy  land. 
O,  had  thy  grandsire,  with  a  prophet's  eye, 
Seen  how  his  son's  son  should  destroy  his  sons, 
From   forth  thy  reach  he  would   have  laid  thy 

shame ; 
Deposing  thee  before  thou  wert  possess'd, 
Which  art  possess'd  now  to  depose  thyself. 
Why,  cousin,  wert  thou  regent  of  the  world, 
It  were  a  shame,  to  let  this  land  by  lease : 
But,  for  thy  world,  enjoying  but  this  land, 
Is  it  not  more  than  shame,  to  shame  it  so  ? 
Landlord  of  England  art  thou  now,  not  king : 


Thy  state  of  law  is  bondslave  to  the  law ; 

And  thou 

K.  Rich.  a  lunatic  lean-witted  fool, 

Presuming  on  an  ague's  privilege, 
Dai-'st  with  thy  frozen  admonition 
Make  pale  our  cheek ;  chasing  the  royal  blood, 
With  fury,  from  his  native  residence. 
Now  by  my  seat's  right  royal  majesty, 
Wert  thou  not  brother  to  great  Edward's  son, 
This  tongue  that  runs  so  roundly  in  thy  head. 
Should  run  thy  head  from  thy  unreverend  shoul- 
ders. 
Gaunt.  O,  spare  me  not,  my  brother  Edward's 
son, 
For  that  I  was  his  father  Edward's  son  ; 
That  blood  already,  like  the  pelican. 
Hast  thou  tapp'd  out,  and  drunkenly  carous'd 
My  brother  Gloster,  plain  well-meaning  soul, 
(Whom  fair  befal  in  heaven  'mongst  happy  souls!) 
May  be  a  precedent  and  witness  good, 
That  thou  respect'st  not  spilling  Edward's  blood; 
Join  with  the  present  sickness  that  I  have ; 
And  thy  unkindness  be  like  crooked  age, 
To  crop  at  once  a  too-long  wither'd  flower. 
Live  in  thy  shame,  but  die  not  shame  with  thee! — 
These  words  hereafter  thy  tormentei's  be ! — 
Convey  me  to  my  bed,  then  to  my  grave : 
Love  they  to  live,  that  love  and  honour  have. 

[Exit,  borne  out  by  his  Attend 
K.  Rich.  And  let  them  die,  that  age  and  sul- 
lens  have ; 
For  both  hast  thou,  and  both  become  the  grave. 

York.  'Beseech  your  majesty,  impute  his  words 
To  wayward  sickliness  and  aga  in  him  : 
He  loves  you,  on  my  life,  and  holds  you  dear. 
As  Harry  duke  of  Hereford,  were  he  here. 

K.  Rich.  Right ;  you  say  true :  as  Hereford's 
love,  so  liis : 
As  theirs,  so  mine ;  and  all  be  as  it  is. 

Enter  Northumberland. 

North.  My  liege,  old  Gaunt  commends  him  to 

your  majesty. 
K.  Rich.  What  says  he  how  ? 
North.  Nay,  nothing ;  all  is  said : 

His  tongue  is  now  a  stringless  instrument ; 
Words,  life,  and  all,  old  Lancaster  hath  spent. 
York.  Be  York  the  next  that  must  be  bank- 
rupt so ! 
Though  death  be  poor,  it  ends  a  mortal  woe. 
K.  Rich.  The    ripest    fruit    first   falls,  and  so 
doth  he ; 

698 


i  I 


ACT    II. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    X. 


His  time  is  spent,  our  pilgrimage  must  be ; 

So  much  for  that. Now  for  our  Irish  wars : 

We  must  supplant  those  rough  rug-headed  kerns ; 
Which  live  like  venonr^  where  no  venom  else, 
But  only  they,  hath  privilege  to  live.'' 
And  for  these  great  affairs  do  ask  some  charge, 
Towards  our  assistance,  we  do  seize  to  us 
The  plate,  coin,  revenues,  and  moveables. 
Whereof  our  uncle  Gaunt  did  stand  possess'd. 
York.  How  long  shall  I  be  patient  ?     Ah,  how 

long 
Shall  tender  duty  make  me  suffer  wrong  ? 
Not  Gloster's  death,  nor  Hereford's  banishment, 
Not   Gaunt's    rebukes,    nor    England's    private 

wrongs. 
Nor  the  prevention  of  poor  Bolingbroke 
About  his  marriage,"  nor  my  own  disgrace, 
Have  ever  made  me  sour  my  patient  cheek, 
Or  bend  one  wrinkle  on  my  sovereign's  face. — 
I  am  the  last  of  noble  Edward's  sons. 
Of  whom  thy  father,  prince  of  Wales,  was  first ; 
In  war,  was  never  lion  rag'd  more  fierce. 
In  peace  was  never  gentle  lamb  more  mild. 
Than  was  that  young  and  princely  gentleman : 
His  face  thou  hast,  for  even  so  look'd  he, 
Accomplish'd  with  the  number  of  thy  hours ;" 
But,  when  he  frown'd,  it  was  against  the  French, 
And  not  against  his  friends :  his  noble  hand 
Did  win  what  he  did  spend,  and  spent  not  that 
Which  his  triumphant  father's  hand  had  won ; 
His  hands  were  guilty  of  no  kindred's  blood. 
But  bloody  with  the  enemies  of  his  kin. 
O,  Richard !  York  is  too  far  gone  with  grief. 
Or  else  he  never  would  compare  between. 
K.  Rich.  Why,  uncle,  what 's  the  matter  ? 
York.  O,  my  liege, 

Pardon  me,  if  you  please ;  if  not,  I  pleas'd 
Not  to  be  pardon'd,  am  content  withal. 
Seek  you  to  seize,  and  gripe  into  your  hands. 
The  royalties  and  rights  of  banish'd  Hereford  ? 
Is  not  Gaunt  dead  ?  and  doth  not  Hereford  live  ? 
Was  not  Gaunt  just?  and  is  not  Harry  true  ? 
Did  not  the  one  deserve  to  have  an  heir  ? 
Is  not  his  heir  a  well-deserving  son  ? 
Take  Hereford's  rights  away,  and  take  from  time 
His  charters,  and  his  customary  rights  ; 
Let  not  to-morrow  then  ensue  to-day ; 
Be  not  thyself,  for  how  art  th  du  a  king. 
But  by  fair  sequence  and  succession  ? 
Now,  afore  God  (God  forbid,  I  say  true !) 
If  you  do  wrongfully  seize  Hereford's  rights, 
Call  in  the  letters  patents  that  he  hath 

694 


By  his  attornies-general  to  sue 
His  livery  and  deny  his  offer'd  homage, 
You  pluck  a  thousand  dangers  on  your  head, 
You  lose  a  thousand  well-disposed  hearts. 
And  prick  my  tender  patience  to  those  thoughts 
Which  honour  and  allegiance  cannot  think. 
K.  Rich.  Think  what  you  will ;  we  seize  intc 
our  hands 
His  plate,  his  goods,  his  money,  and  his  lands. 
York.  I  '11  not  be  by,  the  while :  My  liege,  fare- 
well : 
What  will  ensue  hereof,  there  's  none  can  tell ;    s 
But  by  bad  courses  may  be  understood. 
That  their  events  can  never  fall  out  good.     [Exit. 
K.  Rich.  Go,  Bushy,  to  the  earl  of  Wiltshire 
straight ; 
Bid  him  repair  to  us  to  Ely-house, 
To  see  this  business  :  To-morrow  next 
We  will  for  Ireland  ;  and  't  is  time,  I  trow  ; 
And  we  create,  in  absence  of  ourself, 
Our  uncle  York  lord  governor  of  England, 
For  he  is  just^  and  always  lov'd  us  well. — 
Come  on,  our  queen  :  to-morrow  must  we  part , 
Be  merry,  for  our  time  of  stay  is  short.  \Flourish, 
\Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Bushy,  Aum., 
Green,  and  Bagot. 
North.  Well,  lords,  the  duke  of  Lancaster  ia 

dead. 
Ross.  And  living  too ;  for  now  his  son  is  duke. 
Willo.  Barely  in  title,  not  in  revenue. 
North.  Richly  in  both,  if  justice  had  her  right. 
Ross.  My  heart  is  great ;  but  it  must  break  with 
silence. 
Ere 't  be  disburden'd  with  a  liberal  tongue. 
North.  Nay,  speak  thy  mind  ;  and  let  him  ne'er 
speak  more, 
That  speaks  thy  words  again,  to  do  thee  harm ! 
Willo.  Tends  that  thou'dst  speak,  to  the  duke 
of  Hereford  ? 
If  it  be  so,  out  with  it  boldly,  man  ; 
Quick  is  mine  ear,  to  hear  of  good  towards  him. 
Ross.  No  good  at  all,  that  I  can  do  for  him  ; 
Unless  you  call  it  good,  to  pity  him. 
Bereft  and  gelded  of  his  patrimony. 

North.    Now,  afore   heaven,  't  is  shame   suci 
wrongs  are  borne, 
In  him  a  royal  prince,  and  many  more 
Of  noble  blood  in  this  declining  land. 
The  king  is  not  himself,  but  basely  led 
By  flatterers  ;  and  what  they  will  inform, 
Merely  in  hate,  'gainst  any  of  us  all, 
That  will  tlie  king  severely  prosecute 


i  I 


ACT    U. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    U. 


Gainst  us,  oui  li/es,  our  chi.dren,  and  our  heirs. 
Moss.  The  commons  hath  he  pill'd  with  grievous 
taxes, 
And  lost  their  hearts :  the  nobles  hath  he  fin'd 
For  ancient  quarrels,  and  quite  lost  their  hearts. 
Willo.  And  daily  new  exactions  are  devis'd  ; 
As  blanks,  benevolences,  and  I  wot  not  what : 
But  what,  o'  God's  name,  doth  become  of  this  ? 
North.  Wars  have  not  wasted  it,  for  warr'd  he 
hath  not, 
But  basely  yielded  upon  compromise 
That  which  his  ancestors  achiev'd  with  blows : 
More  hath  he  spent  in  peace,  than  they  in  wars. 
Ross.  The  earl  of  Wiltshire  hath  the  realm  in 

farm. 
Willo.  The  king 's  grown  bankrupt,  like  a  bro- 
ken man. 
North.  Reproach,  and  dissolution,  hangeth  over 

him. 
Ross.  He  hath  not  money  for  these  Irish  wars. 
His  burdenous  taxations  notwithstanding, 
But  by  the  robbing  of  the  banish'd  duke. 

North.  His  noble  kinsman  :  most  degenerate 
king ! 
But,  lords,  we  hear  this  fearful  tempest  sing. 
Yet  seek  no  shelter  to  avoid  the  storm  : 
We  see  the  wind  sit  sore  upon  our  sails, 
And  yet  we  strike  not,  but  securely  perish."' 

Ross.  We  see  the  very  wreck  that  we  must  suffer ; 
And  unavoided  is  the  danger  now. 
For  suffering  so  the  causes  of  our  wreck. 

North.  Not  so ;  even  through  the  hollow  eyes 
of  death, 
I  spy  life  peering ;  but  I  dare  not  say 
How  near  the  tidings  of  our  comfort  is. 

Willo.   Nay,  let  us  share  thy  thoughts,  as  thou 

dost  ours. 
Ross.  Be  confident  to  speak,  Northumberland  : 
We  three  are  but  thyself;  and,  speaking  so, 
Thy  words  are  but  as  thoughts ;  therefore,  be  bold. 
North.  Then  thus  : — I  have  from  Port  le  Blanc, 
a  bay 
In  Brittany,  receiv'd  intelligence. 
That  Harry  Hereford,  Reignold  lord  Cobham, 
[The  son  of  Richard  Earl  of  Arundel,] 
That  late  broke  from  the  duke  of  Exeter, 
His  brother,  archbishop  late  of  Canterbury, 
Sir  Thomas  Erpingham,  sir  John  Raraston, 
Sir  John  Norbery,  sir  Robert  Waterton,  and  Fran- 
cis Quoint, 

All  these  well  furnish'd  by  the  duke  of  Bretagne, 
With  eight  tall  ships,  three  thousand  men  of  war. 


Are  making  hither  with  all  due  expedience, 
And  shortly  mean  to  touch  our  northern  shore ', 
Perhaps,  they  had  ere  this ;  but  that  they  stay 
The  first  departing  of  the  king  for  Ireland. 
If  then  we  shall  shake  off  our  slavish  yoke. 
Imp  out  our  drooping  country's  broken  wing," 
Redeem  from  broking  pawn  the  blemish'd  crowUj 
Wipe  off  the  dust  that  hides  our  sceptre's  guilt, 
And  make  high  majesty  look  like  itself. 
Away,  with  me,  in  post  to  Ravenspurg : 
But  if  you  faint,  as  fearing  to  do  so. 
Stay,  and  be  secret,  and  myself  will  go. 

Ross.  To  horse,  to  horse !  urge  doubts  to  them 

that  fear. 
Willo.  Hold  out  my  horse,  and  I  will  first  be 

there.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  Same.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Queen,  Bushy,  and  Bagot. 

Bushy.  Madam,  your  majesty  is  too  much  sad  : 
You  promis'd,  when  you  parted  with  the  king. 
To  lay  aside  life-harming  heaviness, 
And  entertain  a  cheerful  disposition. 

Queen.  To  please  the  king,  I  did  ;  to  please  my^ 
self, 
I  cannot  do  it ;  yet  I  know  no  cause 
Why  I  should  welcome  such  a  guest  as  grief, 
Save  bidding  farewell  to  so  sweet  a  guest 
As  my  sweet  Richard  :  Yet,  again,  methinks. 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  fortune's  womb, 
Is  coming  towards  me  ;  and  my  inward  soul 
With  nothing  trembles :  at  something  it  grieves, 
More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord  the  king. 

Bushy.  Each  substance  of  a  grief  hath  twenty 
shadows. 
Which  show  like  grief  itself,  but  are  not  so  : 
For  sorrow's  eye,  glazed  with  blinding  tears, 
Divides  one  thing  entire  to  many  objects ; 
Like  perspectives,  which,  rightly  gaz'd  upon. 
Show  nothing  but  confusion  ;  ey'd  awry, 
Distinguish  form  :'*  so  your  sweet  majesty. 
Looking  awry  upon  your  lord's  departure. 
Finds  shapes  of  grief,  more  than  himself,  to  wail ; 
Which,  look'd  on  as  it  is,  is  nought  but  shadows 
Of  what  it  is  not.     Then,  thrice-gracious  queen, 
More  than  your  lord's  departure  weep  not ;  more'  s 

not  seen : 
Or  if  it  be,  't  is  with  false  sorrow's  eye. 
Which,  for  things  true,  weeps  things  imaginary. 

Queen.  It  may  be  so ;  but  yet  my  inward  soul 
Persuades  me,  it  is  otherwise :  Howe'er  it  be, 

695 


I  I 


i  I 


ACT  n. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCESE  n. 


I  cannot  but  be  sad  ;  so  heavy  sad, 

As, — though,  in  thinking,  on  no  thought  I  think, — 

Makes  me  with  heavy  nothing  faint  and  shrink,'^ 

Bushy.  'T  is  nothing  but  conceit,  my  gracious 
lady. 

Queen.  'T  is  nothing  less  :  conceit  is  still  deriv'd 
From  some  fore-father  grief;  mine  is  not  so  ; 
For  nothing  hath  begot  my  something  grief: 
Or  something  hath  the  nothing  that  I  grieve  : 
'Tis  in  reversion  that  I  do  possess ; 
But  what  it  is,  that  is  not  yet  known ;  what 
I  cannot  name ;  't  is  nameless  woe,  I  wot. 

Enter  Green. 

Green.  God  save  your  majesty  ! — and  well  met, 
gentlemen : — 
I  hope,  the  king  is  not  yet  shipp'd  for  Ireland. 
Queen.  Why  hop'st  thou  so  ?  't  is  better  hope, 
he  is ; 
For  his  designs  crave  haste,  his  haste  good  hope ; 
Then  wherefore  dost  thou  hope,  he  is  not  shipjD'd  ? 
Green.  That  he,  our  hope,  might  have  retir'd 
his  power. 
And  driven  into  despair  an  enemy's  hope. 
Who  strongly  hath  set  footing  in  this  land  ; 
The  banish'd  Bolingbroke  repeals  himself. 
And  with  uplifted  arms  is  safe  arriv'd 
At  Ravenspurg. 

Queen.  Now  God  in  heaven  forbid ! 

Green.  O,  madam,  't  is  too  true :  and  that  is 
worse, — 
The  lord  Northumberland,  his  young  son  Henry 

Percy, 
The  lords  of  Ross,  Beauraond,  and  Willoughby, 
With  nil  their  powerful  friends,  are  fled  to  him. 
Bushy.  Why  have  you  not  proclaim'd  Northum- 
berland, 
And  all  the  rest  of  the  revolting  faction 
Traitors  ? 

Green.  We  have :  whereon  the  earl  of  Wor- 
cester 
Hath  broke  his  staff,  resign'd  his  stewardship. 
And  all  the  household  servants  fled  with  him 
To  Bolingbroke. 

Queen.  So,  Green,  thou  art  the  midwife  to  my 
woe. 
And  Bolingbroke  ray  sorrow's  dismal  heir : 
Now  hath  ray  soul  brought  forth  her  prodigy ; 
And  I,  a  gasping  lew-deliver'd  mother. 
Have  woe  to  woe  sorrow  to  sorrow  join'd. 
Bushy.  Despair  not,  madam. 
Queen.  Who  shall  hinder  me  ? 

696 


I  will  despair,  and  be  at  enmity 

With  cozening  hope ;  he  is  a  flatterer, 

A  parasite,  a  keeper-back  of  death, 

Who  gently  would  dissolve  the  bands  of  life, 

Which  false  hope  lingers  in  extremity. 

Enter  York. 

Green.  Here  comes  the  duke  of  York. 

Queen.  With  signs  of  war  about  his  aged  neck  • 

0,  full  of  careful  business  are  his  looks  ! 

Uncle, 

For  heaven's  sake,  speak  comfortable  words. 

York.    Should    I  do  so,  I  should   belie    va\ 
thoughts : 
Comfort 's  in  heaven ;  and  we  are  on  the  earth. 
Where  nothing  lives  but  crosses,  care,  and  grief. 
Your  husband  he  is  gone  to  save  far  off. 
Whilst  others  come  to  make  him  lose  at  home : 
Here  am  I  left  to  underprop  his  land  ; 

Who,  weak  with  age,  cannot  support  myself: 

Now  comes  the  sick  hour  that  his  surfeit  made  ; 
Now  shall  he  try  his  friends  that  flatter'd  him. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  My  lord,  your  son  was  gone  before  I  came 

York.  He  was  ? — Why,  so  ! — go  all  which  way 

it  will ! 

The  nobles  they  are  fled,  the  commons  cold. 

And  will,  I  fear,  revolt  on  Hereford's  side. 

Sirrah, 

Get  thee  to  Flashy,  to  my  sister  Gloster ; 

Bid  her  send  me  presently  a  thousand  pound  : — 

Hold,  take  my  ring. 

Serv.  My  lord,  I  had  forgot  to  tell  your  lordship  : 
To-day,  as  I  came  by,  I  called  there ; — 
But  I  shall  grieve  you  to  report  the  rest. 

York.  What  is  it,  knave  ? 

Serv.  An  hour  before  I  came,  the  duchess  died. 

York.  God  for  his  mercy  !  what  a  tide  of  woes 
Comes  rushing  on  this  woeful  land  at  once ! 
I  know  not  what  to  do  : — I  would  to  God, 
(So  ray  untruth  had  not  provok'd  him  to  it,) 
The  king  had  cut  off  my  head  with  my  broth 

er's.— ^o 
What,  are  there  posts  despatch'd  for  Ireland  ? 
How  shall  we  do  for  money  for  these  wars  ? — 
Come,  sister, — cousin,  I  would  say  :  pray,  pardon 

me. — 
Go,  fellow,  [To  the  Servant,]  get  thee  home,  pro- 
vide some  carts. 
And  biing  away  the  armour  that  is  there. — 

[Exit  Serv. 


ACT   II. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


bCENK    III. 


Gentlemen,  will  you  go  muster  men  ?  if  I  know 
How,  or  which  way,  to  order  these  aiFairs, 
Thus  thrust  disorderly  into  my  hands. 
Never  believe  me.     Both  are  my  kinsmen ; — 
The  one 's  my  sovereign,  whom  both  my  oath 
And  duty  bids  defend  ;  the  other  again, 
Is  my  kinsman,  whom  the  king  hath  wronged ; 
Whom  conscience  and  my  kindred  bids  to  right. 
Well,  somewhat  we  must  do. — Come,  cousin,  I  '11 
Dispose  of  you  : — Go,  muster  up  your  men, 
And  meet  me  presently  at  Berkley-castle. 

I  should  to  Plashy  too  : 

But  time  will  not  permit : — All  is  uneven, 
And  every  thing  is  left  at  six  and  seven. 

[£Jxeunt  York  and  Queen. 
Bushy.  The  wind  sits  fair  for  news  to  go  to 
Ireland, 
But  none  returns.     For  us  to  levy  power, 
Proportionable  to  the  enemy. 
Is  all  impossible. 

Green.   Besides,  our  nearness  to   the  king  in 
love. 
Is  near  the  hate  of  those  love  not  the  king. 

Bagot.  And  that 's  the  v/avering  commons :  for 
their  love 
Lies  in  their  purses ;  and  whoso  empties  them. 
By  so  much  fills  their  hearts  with  deadly  hate. 
Bushy.    Wherein    the  king   stands   generally 

condemn'd. 
Bagot.  If  judgment  lie  in  them,  then  so  do  we. 
Because  we  ever  have  been  near  the  king. 

Green.  Well,  I  '11  for  refuge  straight  to  Bristol 
castle ; 
The  earl  of  Wiltshire  is  already  there. 

Bushy.  Thither  will  I  with  you  :  for  little  oflSce 
The  hateful  commons  will  perform  for  us ; 
Except  like  curs  to  tear  us  all  to  pieces. — 
Will  you  go  along  with  us  ? 

Bagot.  No ;  I  '11  to  Ireland  to  his  majesty. 
Farewell :  if  heart's  presages  be  not  vain, 
We  three  here  part,  that  ne'er  shall  meet  again. 
Bushy.   That 's  as  York  thrives  to  beat  back 

Bolingbroke. 
Green.  Alas,  poor  duke!   the  task  he  under- 
takes 
Is — numb'ring  sands,  and  drinking  oceans  dry ; 
Where  one  on  his  side  fights,  thousands  will  fly. 
Bushy.  Farewell  at  once ;  for  once,  for  all,  and 

ever. 
Green.  Well,  we  may  meet  again. 
Bagot.  I  fear  me,  never. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— The  Wilds  in  Glostershire. 

Enter  Bolingbroke  and  Northumberland,  with 
Forces. 

Boling.  How  far  is  it,  my  lord,  to  Berkley  now  i 

North.  Believe  me,  noble  lord, 
I  am  a  stranger  here  in  Glostershire 
These  high  wild  hills,  and  rough  uneven  ways. 
Draw  out  our  miles,  and  make  them  wearisome : 
And  yet  your  fair  discourse  hath  been  as  sugar, 
Making  the  hard  way  sweet  and  delectable. 
But,  I  bethink  me,  what  a  weary  way 
From  Ravenspurg  to  Cotswold,  will  be  found 
In  Ross  and  Willoughby,  wanting  your  company ; 
Which,  I  protest,  hath  very  much  beguiled 
The  tediousness  and  process  of  my  travel : 
But  theirs  is  sweeten'd  with  the  hope  to  have 
The  present  benefit  which  I  possess : 
And  hope  to  joy,  is  little  less  in  joy. 
Than  hope  enjoy'd :  by  this  the  weary  lords 
Shall  make  their  way  seem  short ;  as  mine  hath 

done 
By  sight  of  what  I  have,  your  noble  company. 

Boling.  Of  much  less  value  is  my  company, 
Than  your  good  words.     But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Harry  Percy. 

North.  It  is  my  son,  young  Harry  Percy, 
Sent  from  my  brother  Worcester,  whencesoever. — 
Harry,  how  fares  your  uncle  ? 

Percy.  I  had  thought,  my  lord,  to  have  leam'd 

his  health  of  you. 
North.  Why,  is  he  not  with  the  queen  ? 
Percy.  No,  ray  good  lord  ;  he  hath  forsook  the 
court. 
Broken  his  staff  of  office,  and  dispers'd 
The  household  of  the  king. 

North.  What  was  his  reason  ? 

He  was  not  so  resolv'd,  when  last  we  spake  to- 
gether. 
Percy.  Because  your  lordship  was  proclaimed 
traitor. 
But  he,  my  lord,  is  gone  to  Ravenspurg, 
To  offer  service  to  the  duke  of  Hereford, 
And  sent  me  o'er  by  Berkley,  to  discover 
What  power  the  duke  of  York  had  levied  there ; 
Then  with  direction  to  repair  to  Ravenspurg. 
North.  Have  you  forgot  the  duke  of  Hereford, 

boy? 
Percy.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  for  that  is  not  forgot, 
Which  ne'er  I  did  remember :  to  my  knowledge, 
I  never  in  my  life  did  look  on  him. 

697 


KING  RICHAKD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    111. 


Noi'th.  Then  learn  to  know  him  now  ;  this  is 

the  duke. 
Percy.    My  gracious   lord,  I  tender  you   my 
service, 
Sjch  as  it  is,  being  tender,  raw,  and  young; 
Which  elder  days  shall  ripen,  and  confirm 
To  more  approved  service  and  desert. 

Boling.   I  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy;  and  be 
sure, 
T  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy. 
As  in  a  soul  rememb'ring  my  good  friends  ; 
j      And,  as  my  fortune  ripens  with  thy  love. 
It  shall  be  still  thy  true  love's  recompense  : 
My  heart  this  covenant  makes,  my   hand    thus 
•*  seals  it. 
North.  How  far  is  it  to  Berkley  ?   And  what  stir 
Keeps  good  old  York  there,  with  his  men  of  war  ? 
Percy.  There  stands  the  castle,  by  yon  tuft  of 
trees, 
Mann'd  with  three  hundred  men,  as  I  have  heard  : 
And  in  it  are  the  lords  of  York,  Berkley,  and 

Seymour  ; 
None  else  of  name,  and  noble  estimate. 

Enter  Ross  and  Willoughby. 

North.  Here  come  the  lords  of  Ross  and  Wil- 
loughby, 
Bloody  with  spurring,  fiery-red  with  haste. 
Boling.  Welcome,  my  lords :  I  wot,  your  love 
pursues 
A  banish'd  traitor ;  all  my  treasury 
Is  yet  but  unfelt  thanks,  which,  more  enrich'd 
Shall  be  your  love  and  labour's  recompense. 
Boss.  Your  presence  makes  us  rich,  most  noble 

lord. 
Willo.  And  far  surmounts  our  labour  to  attain  it. 
Boling.  Evermore  thanks,  the  exchequer  of  the 
poor; 
Which,  till  my  infant  fortune  comes  to  yeai-s, 
Stands  for  my  bounty.     But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Berkley. 

North.  It  is  my  lord  of  Berkley,  as  I  guess. 
Berk.  My  lord  of  Hereford,  my  message  is  to 

you. 
Boling.  My  lord,  my  answer  is — to  Lancaster ; 
And  I  am  come  to  seek  that  name  in  England  : 
And  I  must  find  that  title  in  your  tongue, 
Before  I  make  reply  to  aught  you  say. 

Berk.  Mistake  me  not,  my  lord ;  't  is  not  my 
meaning, 
To  raze  one  title  of  your  honour  out ; — 
698 


To  you,  my  lord,  I  come,  (what  lord  you  will,) 
From  the  most  glorious  regent  of  this  land. 
The  duke  of  York ;  to  know,  what  pricks  you  on 
To  take  advantage  of  the  absent  time,*' 
And  fright  our  native  peace  with  self-bonie  arms. 

Enter  York,  attended. 

Boling.  I  shall  not  need  transport  my  words 
by  you ; 
Here  comes  his  grace  in  person. — My  noble  uncle ! 

[Kneels. 

York.    Show  me  thy  humble  heart,  and    not 
thy  knee. 
Whose  duty  is  deceivable  and  false. 

Boling.  My  gracious  uncle  1 — 

York.  Tut,  tut ! 
Grace  me  no  grace,  nor  uncle  me  no  uncle  : 
I  am  no  traitor's  uncle ;  and  that  word — grace. 
In  an  ungracious  mouth,  is  but  profane. 
Why  have  those  banish'd  and  forbidden  legs 
Dar'd  once  to  touch  a  dust  of  England's  ground  ? 

But  then  more  why ; Why  have  they  dar'd 

to  march 
So  many  miles  upon  her  peaceful  bosom ; 
Frighting  her  pale-fac'd  villages  with  war. 
And  ostentation  of  despised  arms  f^ 
Com'st  thou  because  the  anointed  king  is  hence  ? 
Why,  foolish  boy,  the  king  is  left  behind, 
And  in  my  loyal  bosom  lies  his  power. 
Were  I  but  now  the  lord  of  such  hot  youth, 
As  when  brave  Gaunt,  thy  father,  and  myself, 
Rescued  the  Black  Prince,  that  young  Mars  of  men, 
From  forth  the  rank  of  many  thousand  French  ; 
O,  then,  how  quickly  should  this  a^jp  of  mine, 
Now  prisoner  to  the  palsy,  chastise  thee, 
And  minister  correction  to  thy  fault ! 

Boling.  My  gracious  uncle,  let  me  know  my 
fault; 
On  what  condition  stands  it,  and  wherein  ? 

York.  Even  in  condition  of  the  worst  degree — 
In  gross  rebellion,  and  detested  treason  : 
Thou  art  a  banish'd  man,  and  here  art  come, 
Before  the  expiration  of  thy  time, 
In  braving  arms  against  thy  sovereign. 

Boling.    As  I  was  banish'd,  I  was   banish'd 
Hereford ; 
But  as  I  come,  I  come  for  Lancaster. 
And,  noble  uncle,  I  beseech  your  grace, 
Look  on  my  wrongs  with  an  indifferent  eye  :** 
You  are  my  father,  for,  methinks,  in  you 
I  see  old  Gaunt  aUve ;  O,  then,  my  father ' 
Will  you  permit  that  I  shall  stand  condemn'd 


Acr  II. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE   IV. 


A  wand'ring  vagabond  ;  my  rights  and  royalties 
Pluck'd  from  my  arms  perforce,  and  given  away 
To  upstart  unthrifts  ?     Wherefore  was  I  born  ? 
If  that  my  cousin  king  be  king  of  England, 
It  must  be  granted,  I  am  duke  of  Lancaster. 
You  have  a  son,  Aumerle,  my  noble  kinsman ; 
Had  you  first  died,  and  he  been  thus  trod  down. 
He  should  have  found  his  uncle  Gaunt  a  father. 
To  rouse  his  wrongs,  and  chase  them  to  the  bay. 
I  am  denied  to  sue  my  livery  here, 
And  yet  my  letters-patent  give  me  leave: 
My  father's  goods  are  all  distrain'd,  and  sold  ; 
And  these,  and  all,  are  all  amiss  employ'd. 
What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  I  am  a  subject. 
And  challenge  law  :  Attornies  are  denied  me  : 
And  therefore  personally  I  lay  my  claim 
To  my  inheritance  of  free  descent. 

North.  The  noble  duke  hath  been  too  much 
«bus'd. 

Ross.  It  stands  your  grace  upon,  to  do  him 
right. 

Willo.  Base  men  by  his  endowments  are  made 
great. 

York.  My  lords  of  England,  let  me  tell  you 
this, — 
I  have  had  feeling  of  my  cousin's  wrongs, 
And  labour'd  all  I  could  to  do  him  right : 
But  in  this  kind  to  come,  in  braving  arras, 
Be  his  own  carver,  and  cut  out  his  way, 
To  find  out  right  with  wrong, — it  may  not  be ; 
And  you,  that  do  abet  him  in  this  kind, 
Cherish  rebellion,  and  are  rebels  all. 

North.  The  noble  duke  hath  sworn,  his  com- 
ing is 
But  for  his  own  :  and,  for  the  right  of  that, 
We  all  have  strongly  sworn  to  give  him  aid : 
And  let  him  ne'er  see  joy,  that  breaks  that  oath. 

York.  Well,  well,  I  see  the  issue  of  these  arms : 
I  cannot  mend  it,  I  must  needs  confess, 
Because  my  power  is  weak,  and  all  ill  left : 
But,  if  I  could,  by  him  that  gave  me  life, 
I  would  attach  you  all,  and  make  you  stoop 
Unto  the  sovereign  mercy  of  the  king ; 
But,  since  I  cannot,  be  it  known  to  you, 
I  do  remain  as  neuter.     So,  fare  you  well ; — 
Unless  you  please  to  enter  in  the  castle, 


And  there  repose  you  for  this  night. 

Boling.  An  offer,  uncle,  that  we  will  accept. 
But  we  must  win  your  grace,  to  go  with  us 
To  Bristol  castle ;  which,  they  say,  is  held 
By  Bushy,  Bagot,  and  their  complices, 
The  caterpillars  of  the  commonwealth. 
Which  I  have  sworn  to  weed,  and  pluck  away. 

York.  It  may  be,  I  will  go  with  you  : — but  yet 
I  '11  pause ; 
For  I  am  loath  to  break  our  country's  laws. 
Nor  friends,  nor  foes,  to  me  welcome  you  are  : 
Things  past  redress,  are  now  with  me  past  care. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— ^  Camp  in  Wales. 

Enter  Salisbury,  and  a  Captain. 

Cap.  My  lord  of  Salisbury,  we  have  staid  ten 
days, 
And  hardly  kept  our  countrymen  together, 
And  yet  we  hear  no  tidings  from  the  king ; 
Therefore  we  will  disperse  ourselves :  farewell. 

Sal.  Stay  yet  another  day,  thou  trusty  Welsh- 
man ; 
The  king  reposeth  all  his  confidence 
In  thee. 

Cap.  'T  is  thought,  the  king  is  dead ;  we  will 
not  stay. 
The  bay-trees  in  our  country  are  all  wither'd. 
And  meteors  fright  the  fixed  stars  of  heaven  ; 
The  pale-fac'd  moon  looks  bloody  on  the  earth. 
And  lean-look'd  prophets  whisper  fearful  change ; 
Rich  men  look  sad,  and  ruflSans  dance  and  leap, — 
The  one,  in  fear  to  lose  what  they  enjoy. 
The  other,  to  enjoy  by  rage  and  war ; 
These  signs  forerun  the  death  or  fall  of  kings. — 
Farewell ;  our  countrymen  are  gone  and  fled. 
As  well  assur'd,  Richard  their  king  is  dead.     [Exit, 

Sal.  Ah,  Richard !    with  the  eyes  of  heavy 
mind, 
I  see  thy  glory,  like  a  shooting  star, 
Fall  to  the  base  earth  from  the  firmament ! 
Thy  sun  sets  weeping  in  the  lowly  west. 
Witnessing  storms  to  come,  woe,  and  unrest : 
Thy  friends  are  fled,  to  wait  upon  thy  foes ; 
And  crossly  to  thy  good  all  fortune  goes.     [Exit. 


ACT    III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    1. 


ACT    III 


SCENE  L— Bolingbroke's  Camp  at  Bristol. 

Enter  Bolingbroke,  York,  Northumberland, 
Percy,  Willoughby,  Ross  :  Officers  behind 
with  Bushy  and  Green,  prisoners. 

Boling.  Bring  forth  these  men. — 
Bushy,  and  Green,  I  will  not  vex  your  souls 
(Since  presently  your  souls  must  part  your  bodies,) 
With  too  much  urging  your  pernicious  lives, 
For  't  were  no  charity  :  yet,  to  wash  your  blood 
From  off  my  hands,  here,  in  the  view  of  men, 
I  will  unfold  some  causes  of  your  death. 
You  have  misled  a  prince,  a  royal  king, 
A  happy  gentleman  in  blood  and  lineaments. 
By  you  unhappied  and  disfigur'd  clean. 
You  have,  in  manner,  with  your  sinful  hours. 
Made  a  divorce  betwixt  his  queen  and  him ; 
Broke  the  possession  of  a  royal  bed, 
And  stain'd  the  beauty  of  a  fair  queen's  cheeks 
With  tears  drawn  from  her  eyes  by  your  foul  wrongs. 
Myself — a  prince,  by  fortune  of  my  birth ; 
Near  to  the  king  in  blood  ;  and  near  in  love. 

Till  you  did  make  him  misinterpret  me, 

Have  stoop'd  my  neck  under  your  injuries,         ^~ 
And  sigh'd  my  English  breath  in  foreign  clouds, 
Eating  the  bitter  bread  of  banishment : 
Whilst  you  have  fed  upon  my  signories, 
Dispark'd  my  parks,  and  fell'd  my  forest  woods. 
From  my  own  windows  torn  my  household  coat,^* 
Raz'd  out  my  impress,  leaving  me  no  sign, — 
Save  men's  opinions,  and  my  living  blood, — 
To  show  the  world  I  am  a  gentleman. 
This,  and  much  more,  much  more  than  twice  all 

this, 
Condemns  you  to  the  death  : — See  them  deliver'd 

over 
To  execution  and  the  hand  of  death. 

Bushy.  More  welcome  is  the  stroke  of  death 

to  me, 
llian  Bolingbroke  to  England. — Lords,  farewell. 
Green.  My  comfort  is, — that  heaven  will  take 

our  souls, 
And  plague  injustice  with  the  pains  of  hell. 
Boling.   My  lord  Northumberland,  see  them 

dispatch 'd. 
[Exeunt  North,  and  Others,  with  Prisoners. 

ion 


Uncle,  you  say,  the  queen  is  at  your  hoase 
For  heaven's  sake,  fairly  let  her  be  entreated  : 
Tell  her,  I  send  to  her  my  kind  commends ; 
Take  special  care  my  greetings  be  deliver'd. 

York.  A  gentleman  of  mine  I  have  despatch'd 
With  letters  of  your  love  to  her  at  large. 

Boling.  Thanks,  gentle  uncle.  —  Come,  lords, 
away;  ..^  / 

To  fight  with  Glendower  and  his  complices  f^ '    \ 
Awhile  to  work,  and,  after,  holiday.         \_£Jxeu7it. 

SCENE  11.— The  Coast  of  Wales.     A  Castle  in 

view. 
Flourish :  Drums  and  Trumpets.     Enter  Kino 

Richard,  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Aumerle,  and 

Soldiers. 

K.  Rich.  Barkloughly  castle   call  you  this  at 

hand  ? 
Aum.  Yea,  my  lord :  How  brooks  your  grace 
the  air. 
After  late  tossing  on  the  breaking  seas  ? 

K.  Rich.  Needs  must  I  like  it  well ;   I  weep 
for  joy. 

To  stand  upon  my  kingdom  once  again. 

Dear  earth,  I  do  salute  thee  with  my  hand, 


Though  rebels  wound  thee  with  their  horses'  hoofs : 
As  a  long  parted  mother,  with  her  child 
Plays  fondly  with  her  tears  and  smiles,  in  meeting ; 
So,  weeping,  smiling,  greet  I  thee,  my  earth. 
And  do  thee  favour  with  my  royal  hands. 
Feed  not  thy  sovereign's  foe,  my  gentle  earth. 
Nor  with  thy  sweets  comfort  his  rav'nous  sense : 
But  let  thy  spiders,  that  suck  up  thy  venom, 
And  heavy-gaited  toads,  lie  in  their  way ; 
Doing  annoyance  to  the  treacherous  feet. 
Which  with  usurping  steps  do  trample  thee. 
Yield  stinging  nettles  to  mine  enemies  : 
And  when  they  from  thy  bosom  pluck  a  flower, 
Guard  it,  I  pray  thee,  with  a  lurking  adder ; 
Whose  double  tongue  may  with  a  mortal  touch 
Throw  death  upon  thy  sovereign's  enemies. — 
Mock  not  my  senseless  conjuration,  lords; 
This  earth  shall  have  a  feeling,  and  these  stones 
Prove  armed  soldiers,  ere  her  na  ive  king 
Shall  falter  under  foul  rebellious  arras. 


Acr  III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE  n. 


Bishop.  Fear  not,  my  lord  ;  that  Power,  that 

made  you  king, 
Hath  power  to  keep  you  king,  in  spite  of  all. 
The  means  that  heaven  yields  must  be  embrac'd. 
And  not  neglected  ;  else,  if  heaven  would, 
And  we  will  not,  heaven's  offer  we  refuse ; 
The  proffer'd  means  of  succour  and  redress. 

Aum.    He  means,  my   lord,   that  we  are  too 

remiss ; 
Whilst  Bolingbroke,  through  our  security, 
Grows   strong  and   great,   in    substance,  and  in 

friends. 
K.  Rich.  Discomfortable  cousin  !  know'st  thou 

not. 
That  when  the  searching  eye  of  heaven  is  hid 
Behind  the  globe,  and  lights  the  lower  world, 
Then  thieves  and  robbers  range  abroad  unseen, 
In  murders,  and  in  outrage,  boldly  here ; 
But  when,  from  under  this  terrestrial  ball. 
He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines, 
And  darts  his  light  through  every  guilty  hole. 
Then  murders,  treasons,  and  detested  sins, 
The  cloak  of  night  being  pluck'd  from  off  their 

backs. 
Stand  bare  and  naked,  trembling  at  themselves  ? 
So  when  this  thief,  this  traitor,  Bolingbroke, — 
Who  all  this  while  hath  revell'd  in  the  night. 
Whilst  we  were  wand'ring  with  the  antipodes, — 
Shall  see  us  rising  in  our  throne  the  east, 
His  treasons  will  sit  blushing  in  his  face, 
Not  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  day, 
But,  self-affrighted,  tremble  at  his  sm. 
Not  all  tlie  water  in  the  rough  rude  sea 
Can  wash  the  balm  from  an  anointed  king : 
The  breath  of  worldly  men  cannot  depose 
The  deputy  elected  by  the  Lord  :^^ 
For  every  man  that  Bolingbroke  hath  press'd. 
To  lift  shrewd  steel  against  our  golden  crown, 
God  for  his  Richard  hath  in  heavenly  pay 
A  glorious  angel :  then,  if  angels  fight. 
Weak  men  must  fall ;  for  heaven  still  guards  the 

right. 

Enter  Salisbury. 

Welcome,  nfy  lord  :  How  far  off  lies  your  power  ? 

Sal.  Nor  near,  nor  further  off,  my  gracious  lord, 

Than   this    weak  arm :   Discomfort   guides    my 

tongue. 
And  bids  me  speak  of  nothing  but  despair. 
One  day  too  late,  I  fear,  my  noble  lord. 
Hath  clouded  all  thy  happy  days  on  earth : 
O,  call  back  yesterday,  bid  time  return, 


And  thou  shalt  have  twelve  thousand  fighting- 
men  ! 
To-day,  to-day,  unhappy  day,  too  late, 
O'erthrows  thy  joys,  friends,  fortune,  and  thy  state ; 
For  all  the  Welshmen,  hearing  thou  wert  dead, 
Are  gone  to  Bolingbroke,  dispers'd,  and  fled. 

Aum.  Comfort,  my  liege :  why  looks  your  grace 
so  pale  ? 

K.  Rich.  But  now,  the  blood  of  twenty  thousand 
men 
Did  triumph  in  my  face,  and  they  are  fled  ; 
And,  till  so  much  blood  thither  come  again, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  look  pale  and  dead  ? 
All  souls  that  will  be  safe,  fly  from  my  side ; 
For  time  hath  set  a  blot  upon  my  pride. 

Aum.  Comfort,  my  liege  ;  remember  who  you 
are. 

K.  Rich.  I  had  forgot  myself:  Am  I  not  king  ? 
Awake,  thou  sluggard  majesty  !  thou  sleep'st. 
Is  not  the  king's  name  forty  thousand  names  ? 
Arm,  arm,  my  name !  a  puny  subject  strikes 
At  thy  great  glory. — Look  not  to  the  ground. 
Ye  favourites  of  a  king :  Are  we  not  high  ? 
High  be  our  thoughts :  I  know,  my  uncle  York 
Hath  power  enough  to  serve  our  turn.     But  who 
Comes  here  ? 

Enter  Scroop. 

Scroop.  More  health  and  happiness  betide  my 

liege. 
Than  can  my  care-tun'd  tongue  deliver  him. 
K.  Rich.  Mine  ear  is  open,  and  my  heart  pre- 

par'd  ; 
The  worst  is  worldly  loss,  thou  canst  unfold. 
Say,  is  my  kingdom  lost  ?  why,  't  was  my  care  ; 
And  what  loss  is  it,  to  be  rid  of  care  ? 
Strives  Bolingbroke  to  be  as  great  as  we  ? 
Greater  he  shall  not  be ;  if  he  serve  God, 
We  '11  serve  him  too,  and  be  his  fellow  so  : 
Revolt  our  subjects  ?  that  we  cannot  mend; 
They  break  their  faith  to  God,  as  well  as  us : 
Cry,  woe,  destruction,  ruin,  loss,  decay  ; 
The  worst  is — death,  and  death  will   have  hia 

day. 
Scroop.  Glad  am  I,  that  your  highness  is  so 

arm'd 
To  bear  the  tidings  of  calamity. 
Like  an  unseasonable  stormy  day, 
Which  makes  the  silver  rivers  drown  their  shareti. 
As  if  the  world  were  all  dissolv'd  to  tears  ; 
So  high  above  his  limits  swells  the  rage 
Of  Bolingbr  "»ke,  covering  your  fearful  land 

701 


i 


ACT  III, 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    n. 


With  hard  bright  steel,  and  hearts  harder  than 

steel. 
White-beards  have  arm'd  their  thin  and  hairless 

scalps 
Against  thy  majesty  ;  boys,  with  women's  voices. 
Strive  to  speak  big,  and  clap  their  female  joints 
In  stiff  unwieldy  arms  against  thy  crown : 
Thy  very  beadsmen  learn  to  bend  their  bows 
Of  double-fatal  yew^^  against  thy  state  ; 
Yea,  distaff-women  manage  rusty  bills 
Against  thy  seat :  both  young  and  old  rebel, 
And  all  goes  worse  than  I  have  power  to  tell. 
K.  Rich.  Too  well,  too  well,  thou  tell'st  a  tale 
so  ill. 
Where  is  the  earl  of  Wiltshire  ?  where  is  Bagot  ? 
What  is  become  of  Bushy  ?  where  is  Green  ? 
That  they  have  let  the  dangerous  enemy 
Measure  our  confines  with  such  peaceful  steps  ? 
If  we  prevail,  their  heads  shall  pay  for  it. 
I  warrant,  they  have  made  peace  with  Bolingbroke. 
Scroop.  Peace  have  they  made  with  him,  indeed, 

my  lord. 
K.  Rich.    O   villains,  vipers,  damn'd  without 
redemption  ! 
Dogs,  easily  won  to  fawn  on  any  man  ! 
Snakes,  in  my  heart-blood  warm'd,  that  sting  my 

heart ! 
Three  Judases,  each  one  thrice  worse  than  Judas  ! 
Would  they  make  peace  ?  terrible  hell  make  war 
Upon  their  spotted  souls  for  this  offence  ! 

Scroop.  Sweet  love,  I  see,  changing  his  property. 
Turns  to  the  sourest  and  most  deadly  hate : — 
Again  uncurse  their  souls;  their  peace  is  made 
With  heads,  and  not  with  hands  :  those  whom 

you  curse, 
Have  felt  the  worst  of  death's  destroying  wound, 
And  lie  full  low,  grav'd  in  the  hollow  ground. 
Axim.  Is  Bushy,  Green,  and  the  earl  of  Wilt- 
shire, dead  ? 
Scroop.  Yea,  all  of  them  at  Bristol  lost  their 

heads. 
Aum.  Where  is  the  duke  my  father  with  his 

power  ? 
K.  Rich.  No  matter  where  ;  of  comfort  no  man 
speak : 
Let 's  talk  of  graves,  of  worms,  and  epitaphs ; 
Make  dust  our  paper,  and  with  rainy  eyes 
Write  sorrow  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Let 's  choose  executors,  and  talk  of  wills : 
And  yet  not  so, — for  what  can  we  bequeath, 
Save  our  deposed  bodies  to  the  ground  ? 
Onr  lands,  our  lives,  and  all  are  Bolingbroke's, 
702 


And  nothing  can  we  call  our  own,  but  death  ; 
And  that  small  model  of  the  barren  earth, 
Which  serves  as  paste  and  cover  to  our  bones. 
For  heaven's  sake,  let  us  sit  upon  the  ground. 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  king§ : — 
How  some  have  been  depos'd,  some  slain  in  war; 
Some  haunted  by  the  ghosts  they  have  depos'd; 
Some  poison'd  by  their  wives,  some  sleeping  kill'd ; 
AH  murder'd  : — For  within  the  hollow  crown. 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king. 
Keeps  death  his  court :  and  there  the  antic  sits, 
Scoffing  his  state,  and  grinning  at  his  pomp ; 
Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene 
To  monarchize,  be  fear'd,  and  kill  with  looks  : 
Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit, — 
As  if  this  flesh,  which  walls  about  our  life. 
Were  brass  impregnable ;   and,  humour'd  thus. 
Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 
Bores  through  his  castle  wall,  and — farewell  king  ! 
Cover  your  heads,  and  mock  not  flesh  and  blood 
With  solemn  reverence ;  throw  away  respect, 
Tradition,  form,  and  ceremonious  duty. 
For  you  have  but  mistook  me  all  this  while: 
I  live  with  bread  like  you,  feel  want,  taste  grief. 
Need  friends  : — Subjected  thus. 
How  can  you  say  to  me — I  am  a  king  ? 

Car.  My  lord,  wise  men  ne'er  wail  their  present 
woes. 
But  presently  prevent  the  ways  to  wail. 
To  fear  the  foe,  since  fear  oppresseth  strength. 
Gives,  in  your  weakness,  strength  unto  your  foe, 
And  so  your  follies  fight  against  yourself. 
Fear,  and  be  slain ;  no  worse  can  come,  to  fight ; 
And  fight  and  die,  is  death  destroying  death  ; 
Where  fearing  dying,  pays  death  servile  breath. 

Aura.  My  father  hath  a  power,  enquire  of  liim  ; 
And  learn  to  make  a  body  of  a  limb. 

K.  Rich.  Thou  chid'st  me  well : — Proud  Bol- 
ingbroke, I  come, 
To  change  blows  with  thee  for  our  day  of  doom, 
This  ague-fit  of  fear  is  over-blown  ; 

An  easy  task  it  is,  to  win  our  own. 

Say,  Scroop,  where  lies  our  uncle  with  his  power ' 
Speak  sweetly,  man,  although  thy  looks  be  sour. 

Scroop.  Men  judge  by  the  comp^ion  of  the 
sky 
The  state  and  inclination  of  the  day  : 
So  may  you  by  my  dull  and  heavy  eye, 
My  tongue  hath  but  a  heavier  tale  to  say. 
I  play  the  torturer,  by  small  and  small. 
To  lengthen  out  the  worst  that  must  be  spoken : — 
Your  uncle  York  hath  join'd  with  Bolingbroke ; 


ACT   III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    III. 


And  all  your  northern  castles  yielded  up, 
And  all  your  southern  gentlemen  in  arms 
Upon  his  party. 

K.  Rich.  Thou  hast  said  enough. 

Beshrew  thee,  cousin,  which  didst  lead  me  forth 

[To  AuM. 
Of  that  sweet  way  I  was  in  to  despair ! 
What  say  you  now  ?  What  comfort  have  we  now  ? 
By  heaven,  I  '11  hate  him  everlastingly, 
That  bids  me  be  of  comfort  any  more. 
Go,  to  Flint  castle ;  there  I  '11  pine  away ; 
A  king,  woe's  slave,  shall  kingly  woe  obey. 
That  power  I  have,  discharge ;  and  let  them  go 
To  ear  the  land  that  hath  some  hope  to  grow, 
For  I  have  none : — Let  no  man  speak  again 
To  alter  this,  for  council  is  but  vain. 

Aum.  My  liege,  one  word. 

K.  Rich.  He  does  me  double  wrong. 

That  wounds  me  with  the  flatteries  of  his  tongue. 
Discharge  my  followers,  let  them  hence  ; — Away, 
From  Richard's  night,  to  Bolingbroke's  fair  day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Wales.     Before  Flint  Castle. 

Enter,  with  Drum,  and  Colours,  Bolingbroke  and 
Forces  ;  York,  Northumberland,  and  others. 

Boling.  So  that  by  this  intelligence  we  learn. 
The  Welshmen  are  dispers'd ;  and  Salisbury 
Is  gone  to  meet  the  king,  who  lately  landed, 
With  some  few  private  friends,  upon  this  coast. 

North.  The  news  is  very  fair  and  good,  my  lord  ; 
Richard,  not  far  from  hence,  hath  hid  his  head. 
Yoxjc.  It  would  beseem  the  lord  Northumber- 
land, 
To  say — king  Richard  : — Alack  the  heavy  day. 
When  such  a  sacred  king  should  hide  his  head ! 
North.  Your  grace  mistakes  me ;    only  to  be 
brief, 
Left  I  his  title  out. 

York.  The  time  hath  been, 

Would  you  have  been  so  brief  with  him,  he  would 
Have  been  so  brief  with  you,  lo  shorten  you. 
For  taking  so  the  head,^  your  whole  head's  length. 
Boling.  flistake  not,  uncle,  further  than  you 

should. 
York.  Take  not,  good  cousin,  further  than  you 
should. 
Lest  you  mis-take :   The  heavens  are  o'er  your 
head. 
Boling.  1  know  it,  uncle ;  and  oppose  not 
Myself  against  their  will, — But  who  comes  here  ? 


Enter  Percy. 

Well,  Harry  ;  what,  will  not  this  castle  yield  ? 

Percy.  The  castle  royally  is  mann'd,  my  lord, 
Against  thy  entrance. 

Boling.  Royally ! 

Why,  it  contains  no  king  ? 

Percy.  Yes,  my  good  lord, 

It  doth  contain  a  king  ;   king  Richard  lies 
Within  the  limits  of  yon  lime  and  stone : 
And  with  him  are  the  lord  Aumerle,  lord  Salisbury, 
Sir  Stephen  Scroop :  besides  a  clergyman 
Of  holy  reverence,  who,  I  cannot  learn. 

North.  Belike,  it  is  the  bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Boling.  Noble  lord,  [To  North. 

Go  to  the  rude  ribs  of  that  ancient  castle ; 
Through  brazen  trumpet  send  the  breath  of  parle 
Into  his  ruin'd  ears,  and  thus  deliver. 
Harry  Bolingbroke 

On  both  his  knees  doth  kiss  king  Richard's  hand ; 
And  sends  allegiance,  and  true  faith  of  heart, 
To  his  most  royal  person :  hither  come 
Even  at  his  feet  to  lay  my  arms  and  power ; 
Provided  that,  my  banishment  repeal'd, 
And  lands  restor'd  again,  be  freely  granted : 
If  not,  I  '11  use  the  advantage  of  my  power. 
And  lay  the  summer's  dust  with  showers  of  blood, 
Rain'd  from  the  wounds  of  slaughter'd  English- 
men : 
The  which,  how  far  off  from  the  mind  of  Boling- 
broke 
It  is,  such  crimson  tempest  should  bedrench 
The  fresh  green  lap  of  fair  king  Richard's  land. 
My  stooping  duty  tenderly  shall  show. 
Go,  signify  as  much  ;  while  here  we  march 
Upon  the  grassy  carpet  of  this  plain. — 

[North,  advances  to  the  Castle,  with  a  Trumpet. 
Let  's  march    without   the   noise    of  threat'ning 

drum, 
That  from  the  castle's  totter'd  battlements 
Our  fair  appointments  may  be  well  perus'd. 
Methinks,  king  Richard  and  myself  should  meet 
With  no  less  terror  than  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water,  when  their  thund'ring  shock 
At  meeting  tears  the  cloudy  cheeks  of  heaven 
Be  he  the  fire,  I  '11  be  the  yielding  water : 
The  rage  be  his,  while  on  the  earth  I  rain 
My  waters ;  on  the  earth,  and  not  on  him. 
March  on,  and  mark  king  Richard  how  he  looks. 

A  parle  sounded,  and  answered  by  another  Trum- 
pe'    within.     Floimsh.     Enter  on    the    walls, 

708 


ACT    III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    1X1. 


King  Richard,  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  Au- 
MERLE,  Scroop,  and  Salisbury. 

York.  See,  see,  king  Richard  doth  himself  ap- 
pear, 
As  doth  the  blushing  discontented  sun 
From  out  the  fiery  portal  of  the  east; 
When  he  perceives  the  envious  clouds  are  bent 
To  dim  his  glory,  and  to  stain  the  track 
Of  his  bright  passage  to  the  Occident. 
Yet  looks  he  like  a  king;  behold,  his  eye, 
As  bright  as  is  the  eagle's,  lightens  forth 
Controlling  majesty  :  Alack,  alack,  for  woe, 
That  any  arm  should  stain  so  fair  a  show ! 

K.  Rich.  We  are  amaz'd  ;   and  thus  long  have 
we  stood 
To  watch  the  fearful  bending  of  thy  knee, 

[To  North. 
Because  we  thought  ourself  thy  lawful  king: 
And  if  we  be,  how  dare  thy  joints  forget 
To  pay  their  awful  duty  to  our  presence  ? 
If  we  be  not,  show  us  the  hand  of  God 
That  hath  dismiss'd  us  from  our  stewardship ; 
For  well  we  know,  no  hand  of  blood  and  bone 
Can  gripe  the  sacred  handle  of  our  sceptre. 
Unless  he  do  profane,  steal,  or  usurp. 
And  though  you  think,  that  all,  as  you  have  done. 
Have  torn  their  souls,  by  turning  them  from  us, 

And  we  are  barren,  and  bereft  of  friends ; 

Yet  know, — my  master,  God  omnipotent, 
Is  must'ring  in  his  clouds,  on  our  behalf. 
Armies  of  pestilence  ;  and  they  shall  strike 
Your  children  yet  unborn,  and  unbegot. 
That  lift  your  vassal  hands  against  my  head. 
And  threat  the  glory  of  my  precious  crown. 
Tell  Bolingbroke,  (for  yond',  methinks,  he  is,) 
That  every  stride  he  makes  upon  ray  land, 
Is  dangerous  treason  :  he  is  come  to  ope 
The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war ; 
But  ere  the  crown  he  looks  for  live  in  peace. 
Ten  thousand  bloody  crowns  of  mothers'  sons 
Shall  ill  become  the  flower  of  England's  face ; 
Change  the  complexion  of  her  maid-pale  peace 
To  scarlet  indignation,  and  bedew 
Her  pastures'  grass  with  faithful  English  blood. 

North.  The  king  of  heaven  forbid,  our  lord  the 
king 
Should  so  with  civil  and  uncivil  arms 
Be  rush'd  upon  !     Thy  thrice-noble  cousin, 
Harry  Bolingbroke,  doth  humbly  kiss  thy  hand ; 
And  by  the  honourable  tomb  he  swears, 
That  stands  upon  thy  royal  grandsire's  bones, 
And  by  the  royalties  of  both  your  bloods, 

704 


Curi'ents  that  spring  from  one  most  gracious  heav! ; 
And  by  the  buried  hand  of  warlike  Gaunt ; 
And  by  the  worth  and  honour  of  himself. 
Comprising  all  that  may  be  sworn  or  said, — 
His  coming  hither  hath  no  further  scope. 
Than  for  his  lineal  royalties,  and  to  beg 
Enfranchisement  immediate  on  his  knees  : 
Which  on  thy  royal  party  granted  once. 
His  glittering  arms  he  will  commend  to  rust, 
His  barbed  steeds  to  stables,  and  his  heart 
To  faithful  service  of  your  majesty. 
This  swears  he,  as  he  is  a  prince,  is  just ; 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  credit  him. 

K,  Rich.  Northumberland,  say, — thas  the  king 

returns ; 

His  noble  cousin  is  right  welcome  hither ; 
And  all  the  number  of  his  fair  demands 
Shall  be  accomplish'd  without  contradiction  : 
With  all  the  gracious  utterance  thou  hast. 
Speak  to  his  gentle  hearing  kind  commends. — 
We  do  debase  ourself,  cousin,  do  we  not, 

[To  AuM. 
To  look  so  poorly,  and  to  speak  so  fair  ? 
Shall  we  call  back  Northumberland,  and  send 
Defiance  to  the  traitor,  and  so  die  ? 

Aum.  No,  good  my  lord ;  let 's  fight  with  gentle 

words, 
Till   time  lend  friends,  and  friends  their  helpful 

swords. 
K.  Rich.  0  God  !  0  God  !  that  ere  this  tongue 

of  mine, 
That  laid  the  sentence  of  dread  banishment 
On  yon  proud  man,  should  take  it  off"  again 
With  words  of  sooth  !     0,  that  I  were  as  great 
As  is  my  grief,  or  lesser  than  my  name! 
Or  that  I  could  forget  what  I  have  been  ! 
Or  not  remember  what  I  must  be  now ! 
Swell'st  thou,  proud  heart  ?    I  '11  give  thee  scope 

to  beat. 
Since  foes  have  scope  to  beat  both  thee  and  me. 
Aum.  Northumberland  comes  back  from  Boling- 
broke. 
K.  Rich.  What  must  the  king  do  now  ?    Must 

he  submit  ? 
The  king  shall  do  it.     Must  he  be  de|5osVl  ? 
The  king  shall  be  contented :  Must  he  lose 
The  name  of  king  ?  o'  God's  name,  let  it  go : 
I  '11  give  my  jewels,  for  a  set  of  beads ; 
My  gorgeous  palace,  for  a  hermitage ; 
My  gay  apparel,  for  an  alms-man's  gown ; 
My  figur'd  goblets,  for  a  dish  of  wood; 
My  sceptre,  for  a  palmer's  walking-staflf ; 


Am  in. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    IV. 


My  subjects,  for  a  pair  of  carved  saints ; 

And  my  large  kingdom  for  a  little  grave, 

A  little,  little  grave,  au  obscure  grave : — 

Or  I  '11  be  buried  in  the  king's  highway. 

Some  way  of  common  trade,  where  subjects'  feet 

May  hourly  trample  on  their  sovereign's  head  : 

For  on  my  heart  they  tread,  now  whilst  I  live ; 

And,  buried  once,  why  not  upon  my  head  ? 

Aumerle,  thou  weep'st ;  My  tender-hearted  cou- 
sin ! — 
We  '11  make  foul  weather  with  despised  tears  ; 
Our  sighs,  and  they,  shall  lodge  the  summer  corn. 
And  make  a  dearth  in  this  revolting  land. 
Or  shall  we  play  the  wantons  with  our  woes, 
And  make  some  pretty  match  with  shedding  teai-s? 
As  thus ; — To  drop  them  still  upon  one  place, 
Til!  they  have  fretted  us  a  pair  of  graves 
Within  the  earth;  and,  therein  laid, — "There  lies 
Two  kinsmen,  digg'd  their  graves  with  weeping 

eyes  ?" 
Would  not  this  ill  do  well  ? — Well,  well,  I  see 
I  talk  but  idly,  and  you  mock  at  me. — 
Most  mighty  prince,  my  lord  Northumberland, 
What  says  king  Bolingbroke  ?  will  his  majesty 
Give  Richard  leave  to  live  till  Richard  die  ? 
You  make  a  leg,  and  Bolingbroke  says — ay. 

North.  My  lord,  in  the  base  court  he  doth  attend 
To  speak  with  you  ;   may  't  please  you  to  come 

down  ? 
K.  Rich.  Down,  down,  I  come  ;  like  glistering 

Phaeton, 
Wanting  the  manage  of  unruly  jades. 

[North,  retires  to  Bolino. 
In  the  base  court  ?     Base  court,  where  kings  grow 

base, 
To  come  at  traitors'  calls,  and  do  them  grace. 
In  the  base  court  ?     Come  down  ?     Down,  court ! 

down  king ! 
For   night-owls    shriek,    where    mounting   larks 

should  sing.  \Exeunt,from  above. 

Boling.  What  says  his  majesty  ? 
North.  Sorrow  and  grief  of  heart 

Makes  him  speak  fondly,  like  a  frantic  man  : 
Yet  he  is  come 

Unter  King  Richard,  and  his  Attendants,  below. 

Boling.  Stand  all  apart. 

And  show  fair  duty  to  his  majesty. 

My  gracious  lord, —  [Kneeling. 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin,  you  debase  your  princely 
knee, 
To  make  the  base  earth  proud  with  kissing  it ; 


Me  rather  had,  my  heart  might  feel  your  love. 
Than  my  unpleas'd  eye  see  your  courtesy. 
Up,  cousin,  up ;  your  heart  is  up,  I  know, 
Thus  high  at  least,  [^Touching  his  own  head^  al- 
though your  knee  be  low, 
Boling.  My  gracious  lord.  I  come  but  for  mine 

own. 
K.  Rich.  Your  own  is  yours,  and  I  am  yours 

and  all. 
Boling.  So  far  be  mine,  my  most  redoubted  lord, 
As  my  true  service  shall  deserve  your  love. 

K.  Rich.  Well  you  deserve : — They  well  deserv« 
to  have. 
That  know  the  strong'st  and  surest  way  to  get. — 
Uncle,  give  me  your  hand  :  nay,  dry  your  eyes; 
Tears  show  their  love,  but  want  their  remedies. — 
Cousin,  I  am  too  young  to  be  your  father. 
Though  you  are  old  enough  to  be  my  heir. 
What  you  will  have,  I  '11  give,  and  willing  too, 
For  do  we  must,  what  force  will  have  us  do. — 
Set  on  towards  London  : — Cousin,  is  it  so  ? 
Boling.  Yea,  my  good  lord. 
K.  Rich.  Then  I  must  not  say,  no 

[Flourish.     Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— Langley.     The  Duke  of  Yoi'k's 
Garden. 

Enter  the  Queen,  and  two  Ladies. 

Queen.  What  sport  shall  we  devise  here  in  thi 
garden. 
To  drive  away  the  heavy  thought  of  care? 

\st  Lady.  Madam,  we'll  play  at  bowls. 

Queen.  'T  will  make  me  think 

The  world  is  full  of  rubs,  and  that  my  fortune 
Runs  'gainst  the  bias. 

\st  Lady.  Madam,  we  will  dance. 

Queen.  My  legs  can  keep  no  measure  in  delight 
When  my  poor  heart  no  measure  keeps  in  grief: 
Therefore,  no  dancing,  girl ;  some  other  sport. 

\st  Lady.  Madam,  we  '11  tell  tales. 

Queen.  Of  sorrow,  or  of  joy 

\st  Lady.  Of  either,  madam. 

Queen.  Of  neither,  girl : 

For  if  of  joy,  being  altogether  wanting, 
It  doth  remember  me  the  more  of  sorrow  ; 
Or  if  of  grief,  being  altogether  had, 
It  adds  more  sorrow  to  my  want  of  joj  : 
For  what  I  have,  I  need  not  to  repeat ; 
And  what  I  want,  it  boots  not  to  complain. 

\st  Lady.  Madam,  I  '11  sing. 

Queen.  'T  is  well,  that  thou  hast  cause 

70R 


ACT   III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


But  thou  should'st  please  me  bettei,  would'st  thou 
weep. 
Ist  Lady.  I  could  weep,  madam,  would  it  do 

you  good. 
Queen.  And  I  could  weep,  would  weeping  do 
me  good, 
And  never  borrow  any  tear  of  thee. 
But  sta}',  here  come  the  gardeners  : 
Let 's  step  into  the  shadow  of  these  trees. — 

Enter  a  Gardener,  and  Two  Servants. 

My  wretchedness  unto  a  row  of  pins, 
They  '11  talk  of  state ;  for  every  one  doth  so 
Against  a  change :  Woe  is  forerun  with  woe. 

[Queen  and  Ladies  retire. 

Gard.  Go,  bind  thou  up  yon'  dangling  apricocks, 
Which,  like  unruly  children,  make  their  sire 
Stoop  with  oppression  of  their  prodigal  weight : 
Give  some  supportance  to  the  bending  twigs. — 
Go  thou,  and  like  an  executioner, 
Cut  off  the  heads  of  too-fast-growing  sprays, 
That  look  too  lofty  in  our  commonwealth : 

All  must  be  even  in  our  government. 

You  thus  employ'd,  I  will  go  root  away 
The  noisome  weeds,  that  without  profit  suck 
The  soil's  fertility  from  wholesome  flowers. 

\st  Serv.  Why  should  we,  in  the-  compass  of 
a  pale. 
Keep  law,  and  form,  and  due  proportion, 
Showing,  as  in  a  model,  our  firm  estate  ? 
When  our  sea-walled  garden,  the  whole  land. 
Is  full  of  weeds ;  her  fairest  flowers  chok'd  up, 
Her  fruit  trees  all  unprun'd,  her  hedges  ruin'd, 
Her  knots  disorder'd,^^  and  her  wholesome  herbs 
Swarming  with  caterpillars  ? 

Gard.  Hold  thy  peace : — 

He  that  bath  sufter'd  this  disorder'd  spring, 
Hath  now  himself  met  with  the  fall  of  leaf: 
The  weeds,  that  his  broad-spreading  leaves   did 

shelter, 
That  seem'd  in  eating  him  to  hold  him  up. 
Are  pluck'd  up,  root  and  all,  by  Bolingbroke ; 
r  mean,  the  earl  of  Wiltshire,  Bushy,  and  Green. 

\st  Serv.  What,  are  they  dead  ? 

Gard.  They  are ;  and  Bolingbroke 

Hath  seiz'd  the  wasteful  king. — Oh  !  what  pity 

is  it. 
That  he  had  not  so  trinim'd  and  dress'd  his  land. 
As  we  this  garden  !     We  at  time  of  year 
Do  wound  the  bark,  the  skin  of  our  fruit-trees ; 
Leat,  being  over-proud  with  sap  and  blood. 
With  too  much  riches  it  confound  itself : 

106 


Had  he  done  so  to  great  and  growing  men, 
They  might  bave  liv'd  to  bear,  and  he  to  taste 
Their  fruits  of  duty.     All  superfluous  branches 
We  lop  away,  that  bearing  boughs  may  live : 
Had  he  done  so,  himself  had  borne  the  crown. 
Which  waste  of  idle   hours   hath   quite  thrown 
down. 

\st  Serv.  What,  think  you  then,  the  king  shall 
be  depos'd  ? 

Gard,  Depress'd  he  is  already ;  and  depos'd, 
'T  is  doubt,  he  will  be :  Letters  came  last  night 
To  a  dear  friend  of  the  good  duke  of  York's, 
That  tell  black  tidings. 

Queen.  0, 1  am  press'd  to  death, 

Through  want  of  speaking  !'° — Thou,  old  Adam's 
likeness, 

[  Coming  from  her  concealmmt. 
Set  to  dress  this  garden,  hoAV  dares 
Thy    harsh-rude   tongue    sound    this    unpleasing 

news  ? 
What  Eve,  what  serpent  hath  suggested  thee 
To  make  a  second  fall  of  cursed  man  ? 
Why  dost  thou  say,  king  Richard  is  depos'd  ? 
Dar'st  thou,  thou  little  better  thing  than  earth, 
Divine   his    downfall  ?     Say,   where,   when,    a^r' 

how, 
Cam'st  thou   by  these  ill   tidings  ?    speak,  the./ 
wretch. 

Gard.  Pardon  me,  madam  :  little  joy  have  ^. 
To  breathe  this  news ;  yet,  what  I  say,  is  true 
King  Richard,  he  is  in  the  mighty  hold 
Of  BoHngbroke ;  their  fortunes  both  are  weigh 'd: 
In  your  lord's  scale  is  nothirig  but  himself, 
And  some  few  vanities  that  make  him  light ; 
But  in  the  balance  of  great  Bolingbroke, 
Besides  himself,  are  all  tho  English  peers. 
And   with   that    odds    h?   weighs    king   Riehara 

down. 
Post  you  to  London,  mil  you  '11  find  it  so  ; 
I  speak  no  more  than  overy  one  dotb  know. 

Queen.  Nimble  m'lschance,  that  art  so  light  of 
foot. 
Doth  not  thy  embassage  belong  to  me. 
And  am  I  last  that  knows  it  ?    O.  thou  think'st 
To  serve  me  last,  that  I  may  longest  keep 
Thy  sorrow  in  my  breast. — Come,  ladies,  go, 
To  meet  at  London  London's  king  in  woe. — 
What,  was  I  born  to  this  !  that  my  sad  look 
Should  grace  the  triumph  of  great  Bolingbroke? — 
Gardener,  for  telling  me  this  news  of  woe, 
I  wouk'.  the  plants  thou  graft'st,  may  never  grow. 
\^Exeunt  Qctee*  and  Ladies 


ACT   IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    I. 


Oard.  Poor  queen !  so  that  thy  state  might  be 
no  worse, 
I  would  my  skill  were  subject  to  thy  curse. — 
Here  did  she  drop  a  tear ;  here,  in  this  place, 


I  '11  set  a  bank  of  rue,  sour  herb  of  grace  : 
Rue,  even  for  ruth,  here  shortly  shall  be  seen. 
In  the  remembrance  of  a  weeping  queen. 

\Exeun  \ 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— London.     Westminster  Hall}- 

The  Lords  spiritual  on  the  right  side  of  the 
Throne  ;  the  Lords  temporal  on  the  left  ;  the 
Commons    below.     Enter   Bolingbroke,   Au- 

MERLE,     SURRET,      NORTHUMBERLAND,      PeRCY, 

FiTzwATER,  another  Lord^  Bishop  of  Carlisle, 
Abbot  of  Westminster,  and  Attendants. 
Officers  behind  with  Bagot. 

Boling.  Call  forth  Bagot : 


Now  Bagot,  freely  speak  thy  mind ; 
What  thou  dost  know  of  noble  Gloster's  death  ; 
Who  wrought  it  with  the  king,  and  who  perform'd 
The  bloody  office  of  his  timeless  end. 

Bagot.  Then  set  before  my  face  the  lord  Auraerle. 

Boling.  Cousin,  stjand  forth,  and  look  upon  that 
man. 

Bagot.  My  lord  Aumerle,  I  know  your  daring 
tongue 
Scorns  to  unsay  what  once  it  hath  deliver'd. 
In  that  dead  time  when  Gloster's  death  was  plotted, 
I  heard  you  say, — "  Is  not  ray  arm  of  length, 
That  reacheth  from  the  restful  English  court 
As  far  as  Calais,  to  my  uncle's  head  ?" 
Amongst  much  other  talk,  that  very  time, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  had  rather  refuse 
The  offer  of  an  hundred  thousand  crowns. 
Than  Bolingbroke's  return  to  England; 
Adding  withal,  how  blest  this  land  would  be, 
In  this  your  cousin's  death. 

Aum.  Princes,  and  noble  lords. 

What  answer  shall  I  make  to  this  base  man  ? 
Shall  I  so  much  dishonour  my  fair  stars, 
On  equal  terms  to  give  him  chastisement  ? 
Either  I  must,  or  have  mine  honour  soil'd 

With  the  attainder  of  his  sland'rous  lips, 

There  is  my  gage,  the  manual  seal  of  death. 
That  marks  thee  out  for  hell :  I  say,  thou  liest. 
And  will  maintain,  wliat  thou  hast  said,  is  false. 
In  thy  heart-blood,  though  being  all  too  base 


To  stain  the  temper  of  my  knightly  sword. 

Boling.  Bagot,  forbear,  thou  shalt  not  take  it  up. 

Aum.  Excepting  one,  I  would  he  were  the  best 
In  all  this  presence,  that  hath  mov'd  me  so. 

Fitz.  If  that  thy  valour  stand  on  sympathies. 
There  is  my  gage,  Aumerle,  in  gage  to  thine : 
By  that  fair  sun  that  shows  me  where  thou  stand'st. 
I  heard  thee  say,  and  vauntingly  thou  spak'st  it, 
That  thou  wert  cause  of  noble  Gloster's  death. 
If  thou  deny'st  it,  twenty  times  thou  liest ; 
And  I  will  turn  thy  falsehood  to  thy  heart. 
Where  it  was  forged,  with  my  rapier's  point. 

Aum.  Thou  dar'st  not,  coward,  live  to  see  that 
day. 

Fitz.  Now,  by  my  soul,  I  would  it  were  this 
hour. 

Aum.  Fitzwater,  thou  art  damn'd  to  hell  for  this 

Percy.  Aumerle,  thou  liest ;  his  honour  is  as 
true, 
In  this  appeal,  as  thou  art  all  unjust : 
And,  that  thou  art  so,  there  I  throw  my  gage. 
To  prove  it  on  thee  to  the  extremest  point 
Of  mortal  breathing ;  seize  it,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Aum.  And  if  I  do  not,  may  my  hands  rot  off, 
And  never  brandish  more  revengeful  steel 
Over  the  glittering  helmet  of  my  foe ! 

Lord.    I  take  the  earth  to  the  like,  forswori! 
Aumerle  ;'* 
And  spur  thee  on  with  full  as  many  lies 
As  may  be  holla'd  in  thy  treacherous  ear 
From  sun  to  sun  :  there  is  my  honour's  pawn  ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st, 

Aum.  Who  sets  me  else  ?  by  heaven,  1  '11  throw 
at  all  : 
I  have  a  thousand  spirits  in  one  breast, 
To  answer  twenty  thousand  such  as  you. 

Surrey.  My  lord  Fitzwater,  I  do  remember  well 
The  very  time  Aumerle  and  you  did  talk. 

Fitz.  My  lord,  't  is  true :  you  were  in  preseiid 
then; 

707 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    1. 


And  you  can  witness  with  me,  this  is  true. 

Surrey.  As  false,  by  heaven,  as  heaven  itself  is 
true. 

Fitz.  Surrey,  thou  liest. 

Surrey.  '        Dishonourable  boy ! 

That  lie  shall  lie  so  heavy  on  ray  sword, 
That  it  shall  render  vengeance  and  revenge. 
Till  thou  the  lie-giver,  and  that  lie,  do  lie 
In  earth  as  quiet  as  thy  father's  skull. 
In  proof  whereof,  there  is  my  honour's  pawn  ; 
Engage  it  to  the  trial,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Fitz.  How  fondly  dost  thou  spur  a  forward  horse. 
If  I  dare  eat,  or  drink,  or  breathe,  or  live, 
I  dare  meet  Surrey  in  a  wilderness, 
And  spit  upon  him,  whilst  I  say,  he  lies, 
And  lies,  and  lies  ;  there  is  my  bond  of  faith. 
To  tie  thee  to  my  strong  correction. — 
As  I  intend  to  thrive  in  this  new  world,^^ 
A.umerle  is  guilty  of  my  true  appeal  : 
Besides,  I  heard  the  banish'd  Norfolk  say. 
That  thou,  Aumerle,  didst  send  two  of  thy  men 
To  execute  the  noble  duke  at  Calais. 

Aum.  Some  honest  Christian  trust  me  with  a 

gage, 
That  Norfolk  lies  :  here  do  I  throw  down  this,*^ 
.f  he  may  be  repeal'd  to  try  his  honour. 

Boling.  These  differences   shall  all  rest  under 

Till  Norfolk  be  repeal'd  :  repeal'd  he  shall  be. 
And,  though  mine  enemy,  restor'd  again 
To  all  his  land  and  signories  ;  when  he 's  return'd, 
Against  Aumerle  we  will  enforce  his  trial. 

Car.  That  honourable  day  shall  ne'er  be  seen. — 
Many  a  time  hath  banish'd  Norfolk  fought 
For  Jesu  Christ ;  in  glorious  Christian  field 
Streaming  the  ensign  of  the  Christian  cross. 
Against  black  pagans,  Turks,  and  Saracens : 
And,  toil'd  with  works  of  war,  retlr'd  himself 
To  Italy  ;  and  there,  at  Venice,  gave 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  eiirth, 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  his  captain  Christ, 
Under  whose  colours  he  had  fought  so  long. 

Boling.  Why,  bishop,  is  Norfolk  dead  ? 

Car.  As  sure  as  I  live,  my  lord. 

Baling.  Sweet  peace  conduct  his  sweet  soul  to 
the  bosom 
Of  good  old  Abraham  ! — Lords  appellants. 
Your  differences  shall  all  rest  under  gage, 
Till  we  assign  you  to  your  days  of  trial. 

En*.er  York,  attended. 
Yorlc.  Great  duke  of  Lancaster  I  come  to  thee 

708 


From  plume-pluck'd  Richard  ;  who  with  Avilliug 

soul 
Adopts  thee  heir,  and  his  high  sceptre  yields 
To  the  possession  of  thy  royal  hand  : 
Ascend  his  throne,  descending  now  from  him, — 
And  long  live  Henry,  of  that  name  the  fourth  ! 
Boling.  In  God's  name,  I  '11  ascend  the  regal 

throne. 
Car.  Marry,  God  forbid  !— 
Worst  in  this  royal  presence  may  I  speak, 
Yet  best  beseeming  me  to  speak  the  trui'n. 
Would  God,  that  any  in  this  noble  presence 
Were  enough  noble  to  be  upright  judge 
Of  noble  Richard  ;  then  true  nobless  would 
Learn  him  forbearance  from  so  foul  a  wrong. 
What  subject  can  give  sentence  on  his  king  ? 
And  who  sits  here,  that  is  not  Richard's  subject 
Thieves  are  not  judg'd,  but  they  are  by  to  hear, 
Although  apparent  guilt  be  seen  in  them : 
And  shall  the  figure  of  God's  majesty, 
His  captain,  steward,  deputy  elect. 
Anointed,  crowned,  planted  many  years. 
Be  judg'd  by  subject  and  inferior  breath. 
And  he  himself  not  present  ?     0,  forbid  it,  God, 
That,  in  a  Christian  climate,  souls  refin'd 
Should  show  so  heinous,  black,  obscene  a  deed  ' 
I  speak  to  subjects,  and  a  subject  speaks, 
Stirr'd  up  by  heaven  thus  boldly  for  his  king. 
My  lord  of  Hereford  here,  whom  you  call  king. 
Is  a  foul  traitor  to  proud  Hereford's  king : 
And  if  you  crown  him,  let  me  prophesy, — 
The  blood  of  English  shall  manure  the  ground. 
And  future  ages  groan  for  this  foul  act : 
Peace  shall  go  sleep  with  Turks  and  infidels, 
And,  in  this  seat  of  peace,  tumultuous  wars 
Shall  kin  with  kin,  and  kind  with  kind  confound ; 
Disorder,  horror,  fear,  and  mutiny. 
Shall  here  inhabit,  and  this  land  be  call'd 
The  field  of  Golgotha,  and  dead  men's  skulls. 
O,  if  you  rear  this  house  against  this  house. 
It  will  the  woefullest  division  prove. 
That  ever  fell  upon  this  cursed  earth  ; 
Prevent,  resist  it,  let  it  not  be  so. 
Lest  child,  child's  children,    cry   against  you — 

woe ! 
North.    Well  have   you   argu'd,  sir ;  and,  foi 

your  pains, 
Qi  capital  treason  we  arrest  you  here  : — 
My  lord  of  Westminster,  be  it  your  charge 
To  keep  him  safely  till  his  day  of  trial. — 
May't  please  you,  lords,  to  grant  the  commons'' 

suit. 


ACT   IV, 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE   I. 


Boling.  Fetch  hither  Richard,  that  in  common 
view 
He  may  surrender  ,  so  we  shall  proceed 
Without  suspicion. 

York.  I  will  be  his  conduct.  [Exit. 

Boling.   Lords,  you   that  are  here  under  our 
arrest, 
Procure  your  sureties  for  your  days  of  answer: — 
Little  are  we  beholden  to  your  love,        [To  Car. 
And  little  look'd  for  at  your  helping  hands. 

Re-enter  York,  with  King  Richard,  and  Officeis 
bearing  the  Crown,  <&c. 

K.  Rich.  Alack,  why  am  I  sent  for  to  a  king, 
Before  I  have  shook  off  the  regal  thoughts 
Wherewith  I  reign'd  ?  I  hardly  yet  have  learn'd 
To  insinuate,  flatter,  bow,  and  bend  my  knee : — 
Give  sorrow  leave  a  while  to  tutor  me 
To  this  submission.     Yet  I  well  remember 
The  favours  of  these  men  :  Were  they  not  mine  ? 
Did  they  not  sometime  cry,  all  hail !  to  me  ? 
So  Judas  did  to  Christ :  but  he,  in  twelve. 
Found  truth  in  all,  but  one  ;  I,  in  twelve  thousand, 

none. 
God  save  the  king  ! — Will  no  man  say,  amen  ? 
Am  I  both  priest  and  clerk  ?  well  then,  amen. 
God  save  the  king !  although  I  be  not  he ; 
And  yet,  amen,  if  heaven  do  think  him  me. — 
To  do  what  service  am  I  sent  for  hither  ? 

York.  To  do  that  oflSce,  of  thine  own  good  will. 

Which  tired  majesty  did  make  thee  offer, 

The  I'esignation  of  thy  state  and  crown 
To  Henry  Bolingbroke. 

K.  Rich.  Give  me  the  crown : — Here,  cousin, 
seize  the  crown ; 
Here,  on  this  side,  my  hand  ;  on  that  side,  thine. 
Now  is  this  golden  crown  like  a  deep  well. 
That  owes  two  buckets  filling  one  another  ; 
The  emptier  ever  dancing  in  the  air. 
The  other  down,  unseen,  and  full  of  water  : 
That  bucket  down,  and  full  of  tears,  am  I, 
Drinking  my  griefs,  whilst  you  mount  up  on  high. 

Boling.    I   thought  you  had  been  willing  to 
resign. 

A.  Rich.  My  crown,  I  am  ;  but  still  my  griefs 
are  mine ; 
You  may  my  glories  and  my  state  depose. 
But  not  my  griefs ;  still  am  I  king  of  those. 

Boling.  Part  of  your  cares  you  give  me  with 
your  crown. 

K.  Rich.  Your  cares  set  up,  do  not  pluck  my 
cares  down. 


My  care  is — loss  of  care,  by  old  care  done  ; 
Your  care  is — gain  of  care  by  new  care  won  : 
The  cares  I  give,  I  have,  though  given  away  ; 
They  tend  the  crown,  yet  still  with  me  they  stay. 

Boling.  Are  you  contented  to  resign  the  crown  1 

K.  Rich.  Ay,  no  ; — no,  ay  ; — for  I  must  noth- 
ing be  ; 
Therefore  no  no,  for  I  resign  to  thee. 
Now  mark  me  how  I  will  undo  myself: — 
I  give  this  heavy  weight  from  off  my  head, 
And  this  unwieldy  sceptre  from  my  hand. 
The  pride  of  kingly  sway  from  out  my  heart ; 
With  mine  own  tears  I  wash  away  my  balm,'* 
With  mine  own  hands  I  give  away  my  crown. 
With  mine  own  tongue  deny  my  sacred  state, 
With  mine  own  breath  release  all  duteous  oaths  ' 
All  pomp  and  majesty  I  do  forswear ; 
My  manors*  rents,  revenues,  I  forego  ; 
My  acts,  decrees,  and  statutes,  I  deny  : 
God  pardon  all  oaths,  that  are  broke  to  me ! 
God  keep  all  vows  unbroke,  are  made  to  thee  ! 
Make    me,    that    nothing    have,    with    nothing 

griev'd ; 
And  thou  with  all  pleas'd,  that  hast  all  achiev'd 
Long  may'st  thou  live  in  Richard's  seat  to  sit, 
And  soon  lie  Richard  in  an  earthy  pit ! 
God  save  king  Henry,  unking'd  Richard  says, 
And  send  him  many  years  of  sunshine  days  ! — 
What  more  remains  ? 

North.  No  more,  but  that  you  read 

[  Offering  a  paper. 
These  accusations,  and  these  grievous  crimes. 
Committed  by  your  person,  and  your  followers. 
Against  the  state  and  profit  of  this  land  ; 
That  by  confessing  them,  the  souls  of  men 
May  deem  that  you  are  worthily  depos'd. 

K.  Rich.  Must  I  do  so  ?  and  must  I  ravel  out 
My  weav'd-up  follies  ?  Gentle  Northumberland, 
If  thy  offences  were  upon  record. 
Would  it  not  shame  thee  in  so  fair  a  troop, 
To  read  a  lecture  of  them  ?  If  thou  would'st, 
There  sbould'st  thou  find  one  heinous  article, — 
Containing  the  deposing  of  a  king. 
And  cracking  the  strong  warrant  of  an  oath. — 
Mark'd    with   a    blot,   damn'd   in    the  book   of 

heaven  : — 
Nay,  all  of  you,  that  stand  and  look  upon  me. 
Whilst  that  my  wretchedness  doth  bait  myself,— 
Though  some  of  you,  with  Pilate,  Aviish  your  hands 
Showing  an  outward  pity  ;  yet  you  Pilates 
Have  here  deliver'd  me  to  my  sour  cross. 
And  water  cannot  wash  away  your  sin. 

709 


ACT   IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


North.    My  lord,  despatch;    read   o'er   these 

articles. 
K.  Eich.  Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  I  cannot 
see : 
And  yet  salt  water  blinds  them  not  so  much, 
But  they  can  see  a  sort  of  traitors  here. 
Nay,  if  I  turn  mine  eyes  upon  myself, 
I  find  myself  a  traitor  with  the  rest : 
For  I  have  given  here  my  soul's  consent. 
To  undeck  the  pompous  body  of  a  king ; 
Make  glory  base  ;  and  sovereignty,  a  slave ; 
Proud  majesty,  a  subject ;  state,  a  peasant. 

North.  My  lord, 

K.  Rich.  No  lord  of  thine,  thou  haught,  insult- 
ing man. 
Nor  no  man's  lord ;  I  have  no  name,  no  title, — 
No,  not  that  name  was  given  me  at  the  font, — 
But 't  is  usurp'd  : — Alack  the  heavy  day, 
That  I  have  worn  so  many  winters  out. 
And  know  not  now  what  name  to  call  myself! 
0,  that  I  were  a  mockery  king  of  snow. 
Standing  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke, 
To  melt  myself  away  in  water-drops ! — 
Good  king, — great  king, — (and   yet  not  greatly 

good,) 
An  if  my  word  be  steiling  yet  in  England, 
Let  it  command  a  mirror  hither  straight ; 
That  it  may  show  me  what  a  face  I  have. 
Since  it  is  bankrupt  of  his  majesty. 

Boling.  Go  some  of  you,  and  fetch  a  looking- 
glass.  [^Exit  an  Attend. 
North.  Read  o'er  this  paper,  while  the  glass 

doth  come. 
K.  Mich.  Fiend  !  thou  torment'st  me  ere  I  come 

to  hell. 
Boling.  Urge  it  no  more,  my  lord  Northum- 

bei'land. 
North,  The  commons  will  not  then  be  satisfied. 
K.  Rich.     They  shall   be  satisfied :   I  '11  read 
enough, 
When  I  do  see  the  very  book  indeed 
Where  all  my  sins  are  writ,  and  that 's — myself. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  a  Glass. 

Give  me  that  glass,  and  therein  will  I  read. — 

No  deeper  wrinkles  yet  ?  Hath  sorrow  struck 

So  many  blows  upon  this  face  of  mine, 

And  made  no  deeper  wounds  ? — 0,  flattering  glass, 

Like  to  my  followers  in  prosperity. 

Thou  dost  beguile  me  !  Was  this  face  the  face. 

That  every  day  under  his  household  roof 

Did  keep  ten  thousand  men  ?^^  Was  this  the  face, 

110 


That,  like  the  sun,  did  make  beholders  wink  ? 
Was  this  the  face,  that  fac'd  so  many  follies. 
And  was  at  last  out-fac'd  by  Bolingbroke  ? 
A  brittle  glory  shineth  in  this  face : 
As  brittle  as  the  glory  is  the  fece ; 

\I)ashes  the  Glass  against  the  ground, 
For  there  it  is,  crack'd  in  a  hundred  shivers. — 
Mark,  silent  king,  the  moral  of  this  sport, — 
How  soon  my  sorrow  hath  destroy'd  my  face. 

Boling.  The  shadow  of  your  sorrow  hath  de- 
stroy'd 
The  shadow  of  your  face. 

IC.  Rich.  Say  that  again. 

The  shadow  of  my  sorrow  ?     Ha !  let's  see  ; — 
'T  is  very  true,  my  grief  Hes  all  within  ; 
And  these  external  manners  of  lament 
Are  merely  shadows  to  the  unseen  grief, 
That  swells  with  silence  in  the  tortur'd  soul ; 
There  lies  the  substance  ;  and  I  thank  thee,  king 
For  thy  great  bounty,  that  not  only  giv'st 
Me  cause  to  wail,  but  teachest  me  the  way 
How  to  lament  the  cause.     I  '11  beg  one  boon. 
And  then  be  gone,  and  trouble  you  no  more. 
Shall  I  obtain  it  ? 

Boling.  Name  it,  fair  cousin. 

K.  Rich.  Fair  cousin  ?  Why,  I  am  greater  than 
a  king : 
For,  when  I  was  a  king,  my  flatterers 
Were  then  but  subjects ;  being  now  a  subject, 
I  have  a  king  here  to  my  flatterer. 
Being  so  great,  I  have  no  need  to  beg. 

Boling.  Yet  ask. 

K.  Rich.  And  shall  I  have  ? 

Boling.  You  shall. 

IC.  Rich.  Then  give  me  leave  to  go. 

Boling.  Whither? 

K.  Rich.  Whither  you  will,  so  I  were  from 
your  sights. 

Boling.  Go,  some  of  you,  convey  him  to  the 
Tower. 

K.  Rich.    O,  good  !  Convey  ? — Conveyers  are 
you  all. 
That  rise  thus  nimbly  by  a  true  king's  fall. 

[Uxeunt  K.  Rich.,  soine  Lords,  and  a  Guard. 

Boling.  On  Wednesday  next,  we  solemnly  set 
down 
Our  coronation  :  lords,  prepare  youiselves. 

[JSxeunt  all  but  the  Abbot,  Car.,  and  AuM. 

Abbot.  A  woeful  pageant  have  we  here  beheld. 

Car.    The   woe 's   to  come ;    the  children   yet 
unborn 
Shall  feel  this  day  as  sharp  tc  them  as  thorn. 


ACT   V. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


Aum.  You  holy  clergymen,  is  there  no  plot 
To  rid  the  realm  of  this  pernicious  blot  ? 

Abbot.  Before  I  freely  speak  my  mind  herein, 
You  shall  noL  only  take  the  sacrament 
To  bury  mine  intents,  but  to  effect 


Whatever  I  shall  happen  to  devise : — 

I  see  your  brows  are  ful"/  of  discontent, 

Your  hearts  of  sorrow,  and  your  eyes  of  tears ; 

Come  home  with  me  to  supper ;  I  will  lay 

A  plot,  shall  show  us  all  a  merry  day.     \Exeunt 


ACT  Y. 


SCENE  I. — London.     A  Street  leading  to  the 
Tower. 

Enter  Queen  and  Ladies. 

Queen.  This  way  the  king  will  come;  this  is 
the  way 
lo  Julius  Caesar's  ill-erected  tower,^' 
To  whose  flint  bosom  my  condemned  lord 
Is  doora'd  a  prisoner  by  proud  Bolingbroke  : 
Here  let  us  rest,  if  this  rebellious  earth 
Have  any  resting  for  her  true  king's  queen. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  Guards. 

But  soft,  but  see,  or  rather  do  not  see. 
My  fair  rose  wither  :  Yet  look  up  ;  behold ; 
That  you  in  pity  may  dissolve  to  dew. 
And  wash  him  fresh  again  with  true-love  tears. — 
Ah,  thou,  the  model  where  old  Troy  did  stand ; 
Thou  map  of  honour;  thou  king  Richard's  tomb. 
And  not  king  Richard  ;  thou  most  beauteous  inn. 
Why  should  hard-favour'd  grief  be  lodged  in  thee. 
When  triumph  is  become  an  ale-house  guest  ? 
K.  Rich.  Join  not  with  grief,  fair  woman,  do 

not  so. 
To  make  my  end  too  sudden  :  learn,  good  soul. 
To  think  our  former  state  a  happy  dream  ; 
From  which  awak'd,  the  truth  of  what  we  are 
Shows  us  but  this :  I  am  sworn  brother,  sweet. 
To  grim  necessity  ;  and  he  and  I 
Will  keep  a  league  till  death.    Hie  thee  to  France, 
And  cloister  thee  in  some  religious  house  : 
Our  holy  lives  must  win  a  new  world's  crown. 
Which  our  profane  hours  here  have  stricken  down. 
Queen.  What,  is  my  Richard  both  in  shape  and 

mind 
Transform'd,  and  weakened  ?    Hath  Bolingbroke 
Depos'd  thine   intellect  ?   hath   he   been    in  thy 

heart  ? 
The  liou,  dying,  thrusteth  forth  his  paw, 


And  wounds  the  earth,  if  nothing  else,  with  rage 
To  be  o'erpower'd  ;  and  wilt  thou,  pupil-like. 
Take  thy  correction  mildly  ?  kiss  the  rod.; 
And  fawn  on  rage  with  base  humility. 
Which  art  a  lion,  and  a  king  of  beasts  ? 

K,  Rich.  A  king  of  beasts,  indeed  ;  if  aughl 

but  beasts, 
I  had  been  still  a  happy  king  of  men. 
Good  sometime   queen,  prepare    thee   hence  foi 

France : 
Think,  I  am  dead ;    and   that  even    here    thou 

tak'st, 
As  from  my  death-bed,  my  last  living  leave. 
In  winter's  tedious  nights,  sit  by  the  fire 
With  good  old  folks ;  and  let  them  tell  thee  tales 
Of  woeful  ages,  long  ago  betid  : 
And,  ere  thou  bid  good  night,  to  quit  their  grief. 
Tell  thou  the  lamentable  fall  of  me,  ■ 
And  send  the  hearers  weeping  to  their  beds. 
For  vvhy,  the  senseless  brands  will  sympathize 
The  heavy  accent  of  thy  moving  tongue. 
And,  in  compassion,  weep  the  fire  out : 
And  some  will  mourn  in  ashes,  some  coal-black, 
For  the  deposing  of  a  rightful  king. 

Enter  Northumberland,  attended. 

North.  My  lord,  the  mind  of  Bolingbroke  is 
chang'd ; 

You  must  to  Pomfret,  not  unto  the  Tower. 

And,  madam,  there  is  order  ta'en  for  you  ; 
With  all  swift  speed  you  must  away  to  France. 
K.  Rich.  Northumberland,  thou  ladder  where- 
withal 
The  mounting  Bolingbroke  ascends  ray  throiie,— 
The  time  shall  not  be  many  hours  of  age 
More  than  it  is,  ere  foul  sin,  gathering  head. 
Shall  break  into  corruption  :  thou  shalt  think. 
Though  he  divide  the  realm,  and  give  thee  half, 
It  is  too  little,  helping  him  to  all ; 

711 


ACT    V. 


KIXG  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


HCKMs  a. 


And  be  shall  think,  that  thou,  which  know'st  the 

way 
To  plant  unrightful  kings,  wilt  know  again, 
Being  ne'er  so  httle  urg'd,  another  way 
To  pluck  him  headlong  from  the  usurped  throne. 
The  love  of  wicked  friends  converts  to  fear  ; 
That  fear,  to  hate  ;  and  hate  turns  one,  or  both, 
To  worthy  danger,  and  deserved  death. 

North.  My  guilt  be  on  my  head,  and  there  an 
end. 
Take  leave,  and  part ;  for  you  must  part  forthwith. 
K.  Rich.  Doubly  divorc'd  ? — Bad  men,  ye  vi- 
olate 
A  twofold  marriage  :  'twixt  my  crown  and  me  ; 
And  then,  betwixt  me  and  my  married  wife. — 
Let  me  unkiss  the  oath  'twixt  thee  and  me  ; 
And  yetTiot  so,  for  with  a  kiss  't  was  made. — 
Part  us,  Northumberland ;  I  towards  the  north, 
Where  shivering  cold  and  sickness  pines  the  clime  : 
My  wife  to  France ;  from  whence,  set  forth  in  pomp. 
She  came  adorned  hither  like  sweet  May, 
Sent  back  like  Hallowmas,^^  or  short'st  of  day. 
Queen.  And  must  we  be  divided  ?  must  we  part? 
K.  Rich.  Ay,  hand  from  hand,  my  love,  and 

heart  from  Learc. 
Queen.  Banish  us  both,  and  send  the  king  with 

me. 
North.  That  were  some  love,  but  little  policy. 
Queen.  Then  whither  he  goes,  thither  let  me  go. 
K.  Rich.  So  two,  together  weeping,  make  one 
woe. 
Weep  thou  for  me  in  France,  I  for  thee  here  ; 
Better  far  off,  than — near,  be  ne'er  the  near.'^ 
Go,  count  thy  way  with  sighs  ;  I,  mine  with  groans. 
Queen.  So  longest  way  shall  have  the  longest 

moans. 
K.  Rich.  Twice  for  one  step  I  '11  groan,  the  way 
being  short. 
And  piece  the  way  out  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Come,  come,  in  wooing  sorrow  let 's  be  brief, 
Since,  wedding  it,  there  is  such  length  in  grief. 
One  kiss  shall  stop  our  mouths,  and  dumbly  part  'f 
Thus  give  I  mine,  and  thus  I  take  thy  heart. 

[They  kiss. 
Queen,  Give  me  mine  own  again ;  't  were  no 
good  part, 
To  take  on  me  to  keep,  and  kill  tliy  heart. 

[Kiss  again. 
So,  now  I  have  mine  own  again,  begone, 
That  I  may  strive  to  kill  it  with  a  groan. 

K  Rich.  We  make  woe  wanton  with  this  fond 
delay  : 
712 


Once  more,  adieu ;  the  rest  let  sorrow  say. 


SCENE  II. 


[Exeunt. 

-The  Same.  A  Room  in  the  Duke  of 
Yoi'k's  Palace. 


Enter  York,  and  his  Duchess. 

Duch.  My  lord,  you  told  me,  you  would  tell  the 
rest, 
When  weeping  made  you  break  the  story  off 
Of  our  two  cousins  coming  into  London. 

York.  Where  did  I  leave  ? 

Duch.  At  that  sad  stop,  my  lord, 

Where  rude  misgovern'd  hands,  from  window's 

tops. 
Threw  dust  and  rubbish  on  king  Richard's  head. 

York.  Then,  as  I  said,  the  duke,  great  Boling 
broke, — 
Mounted  upon  a  hot  and  fiery  steed. 
Which  his  aspiring  rider  seem'd  to  know,— 
With  slow,  but  stately  pace,  kept  on  his  course. 
While  all  tongues  cried — God  save  thee,  Boling 

broke ! 
You  would  have  thought  the  very  windows  spako, 
So  many  greedy  looks  of  young  and  old 
Through  casements  darted  their  desiring  eyes 
Upon  his  visage  ;  and  that  all  the  walls. 
With  painted  imag'ry,  had  said  at  once,'"' — 
Jesu  preserve  thee  I  welcome,  Bolingbroke ! 
Whilst  he,  from  one  side  to  the  other  turning. 
Bare-headed,  lower  than  his  proud  steed's  neck, 
Bespake  them  thus, — I  thank  you,  countrymen  : 
And  thus  still  doing,  thus  he  pass'd  along. 

Duch    Alas,  poor  Richard  !  where  rides  he  the 
while  ? 

Yo7'k.  As  in  a  theatre,  the  eyes  of  men. 
After  a  well  grac'd  actor  leaves  the  stage, 
Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next. 
Thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious : 
Even  so,  or  with  much  more  contempt,  men's  eyes 
Did  scowl  on  Richard;  no  man  cried,  God  save 

him ; 
No  joyful  tongue  gave  him  his  welcome  horiie  : 
But  dust  was  thrown  upon  his  sacred  head  ; 
Wh'.ch  with  such  gentle  sorrow  lie  shook  off, — 
His  face  still  combating  with  tears  and  smiles, 
The  badges  of  his  grief  and  patience, — 
That  had  not  God,  for  some  strong  purpose,  steel'd 
The  hearts  of  men,  they  must  perforce  have  melted, 
And  barbarism  itself  have  pitied  him. 
But  heaven  hath  a  hand  in  these  events ; 
To  whose  high  will  we  bound  onr  calm  contents. 


KING  RICHARD  'J  HE  SECOND. 


SCENE  n. 


To  Bolingbroke  are  we  sworn  subjects  now, 
Whose  state  and  honour  I  for  aye  allow. 

Enter  Aumerle. 

Duch.  Here  comes  my  son  Aumerle. 

York.  Aumerle  that  was ; 

But  that  is  lost,  for  being  Richard's  friend, 
And,  madam,  you  must  call  him  Rutland  now  : 
I  am  in  parliament  pledge  for  his  truth. 
And  lasting  fealty  to  the  new-made  king. 

Duch.  Welcome,  my  son  :  Who  are  the  violets 
now. 
That  strew  the  green  lap  of  the  new-come  spring  ? 

Aum.  Madam,  I  know  not,  nor  I  greatly  care 
not: 
God  knows,  I  had  as  lief  be  none,  as  one. 

York.  Well,  bear  you  well  in  this  new  spring  of 
time, 
Lest  you  be  cropp'd  before  you  come  to  prime. 
What  news  from  Oxford  ?  hold  those  justs  and  tri- 
umphs ? 

Awn.  For  aught  I  know,  my  lord,  they  do. 

York.  You  will  be  there,  I  know. 

Aum.  If  God  prevent  it  not ;  I  purpose  so. 

York.  What  seal  is  that,  that  hangs  without  thy 
bosom  ?^' 
Vea,  look'st  thou  pale  ?  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  My  lord,  'tis  nothing. 

York.  No  matter  then  who  sees  it : 

I  will  be  satisfied,  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  I  do  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me ; 
It  is  a  matter  of  small  consequence. 
Which  for  some  reasons  I  would  not  have  seen. 

York.  Which  for  some  reasons,  sir,  I  mean  to  see. 
I  fear,  I  fear. 

Duch.  What  should  you  fear? 

T  is  nothing  but  some  bond  that  he  is  enter'd  into 
For  gay  apparel,  'gainst  the  triumph  day. 

York.  Bound  to  himself?  what  doth  he  with  a 
bond 
That  he  is  bound  to?  Wife,  thou  art  a  fool. — 
Boy,  let  me  see  the  writing. 

Aum.  I  do  beseech  you,  pardon  me ;  I  may  not 
show  it. 

York.  I  will  be  satisfied  ;  let  me  see  it,  I  say. 
[^Snatches  it,  and  reads. 
Treason  !  foul  treason  ! — villain  !  traitor  !  slave  ! 

Duc/i.  What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 

York,  Ho  !  who  is  within  there  ? 


Enter  a  Serv  nt. 


Saddle  my  horse. 


90 


God  for  his  mercy  !  what  treachery  is  here ! 

Duch.  Why,  what  is  it,  my  lord  ? 

York.  Give  me  ray  boots,  I  say ;  saddle  ray 
horse ; 
Now  by  mine  honour,  by  ray  life,  ray  troth, 
I  will  appeach  the  villain.  [Exit  Serv. 

Duch.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

York.  Peace,  foolish  woman. 

Duch.  I  will  not  peace  : — What  is  the  matter, 
son  ? 

Aum.  Good  mother,  be  content :   it  is  no  more 
Than  ray  poor  life  must  answer. 

Duch.  Thy  life  answer ' 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  Boots. 

York.  Bring  me  my  boots,  I  will  unto  the  king 

Duch.  Strike  him,  Aumerle. — Poor  boy,  thou 
art  amaz'd  ; 
Hence,  villain  ;  never  more  come  in  my  sight. — 

{To  the  Serv. 

York.  Give  me  my  boots,  I  say. 

Duch.  Why,  York,  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hide  the  trespass  of  thine  own  ? 
Have  we  more  sons  ?  or  are  we  like  to  have  ? 
Is  not  my  teeming  date  drunk  up  with  time  ? 
And  wilt  thou  pluck  my  fair  son  from  mine  age. 
And  rob  me  of  a  happy  mother's  name? 
Is  he  not  like  thoe  ?   Is  he  not  thine  own  ? 

York.     Thou  fond  mad  woman, 
Wilt  thou  conceal  this  dark  conspiracy  ? 
A  dozen  of  them  here  have  ta'en  the  sacrament. 
And  interchangeably  set  down  their  hands. 
To  kill  the  king  at  Oxford. 

Duch.  He  shall  be  none; 

We  '11  keep  him  here :  Then  what  is  that  to  him  ? 

York.  Away, 
Fond  woman  I  were  he  twenty  times  ray  son, 
I  would  appeach  him. 

Duch.  Hadst  thou  groan'd  for  him, 

As  I  have  done,  thoud'st  be  more  pitiful. 
But  now  I  know  thy  raind  ;  thou  dost  suspect. 
That  I  have  been  disloyal  to  thy  bed. 
And  that  he  is  a  bastard,  not  thy  son  : 
Sweet  York,  sweet  husband,  be  not  of  that  mind: 
He  is  as  like  thee  as  a  man  may  be, 
Not  like  to  me,  or  any  of  my  kin, 
.And  yet  I  love  him. 

York.         Make  way,  unruly  woman..      [Exit, 

Duch.  After,  Aumerle ;    moun'  thee  upon  his 
horse ; 
Spur,  post ;  and  get  before  him  to  the  king, 
And  beg  thy  pardon  ere  he  do  accuse  thee. 

713 


ACT    V. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE   in. 


r  '11  not  be  long  behind ;  though  I  be  old, 
I  doubt  not  but  to  ride  as  fast  as  York : 
And  never  will  I  rise  up  from  the  ground, 
Till  Bolingbroke  have  pardon'd  thee :  Away  ; 


Deo-one. 


[Bxeunt. 


SCENE  in. — Windsor.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Bolingbroke  as  king  ;  Percy,  and  other 
Lords. 

Baling.  Can  no  man  tell  of  my  unthrifty  son  ? 
'T  is  full  three  months,  since  I  did  see  him  last : — 
If  any  plague  hang  over  us,  't  is  he. 
I  would  to  God,  my  lords,  he  might  be  found  : 
Inquire  at  London,  'mongst  the  taverns  there. 
For  there,  they  say,  he  daily  doth  frequent. 
With  unrestrained  loose  companions  ; 
Even  such,  they  say,  as  stand  in  narrow  lanes, 
A.nd  beat  our  watch,  and  rob  our  passengers ; 
While  he,  young,  wanton,  and  effeminate  boy. 
Takes  on  the  point  of  honour,  to  support 
So  dissolute  a  crew. 

Percy.  My  lord,  some  two  days  since  I  saw  the 
prince ; 
And  told  him  of  these  triumphs  held  at  Oxford. 

Baling.  And  what  said  the  gallant  ? 

Percy.  His  answer  was, — he  would  unto   the 
stews ; 
And  from  the  commonest  creature  pluck  a  glove. 
And  wear  it  as  a  favour;  and  with  that 
He  would  unhorse  the  lustiest  challenger. 

Baling.  As  dissolute,  as  desperate  :  yet,  through 
both 
I  see  some  sparkles  of  a  better  hope. 
Which  elder  days  may  happily  bring  forth. 
But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  Aumerle,  hastily. 

Aum.  Where  is  the  king? 

Baling.  What  means 

Our  cousin,  that  he  stares  and  looks  so  wildly? 
Aum.  God  save  your  grace.    I  do  beseech  your 
majesty. 
To  have  some  conference  with  your  grace  alone. 
Baling.  Withdraw  yourselves,  and  leave  us  here 
alone. —       [Exeunt  Percy  and  Lords. 
What  is  the  matter  with  our  cousin  now  ? 

Aum.  For  ever  may   my   knees  grow  t.o  the 
earth,  [Kneels. 

My  tongue  cleave   to  my  roof  within  my  mouth. 
Unless  a  pardon   ere  I  rise,  or  speak. 

Baling.  Intended,  or  committed,  was  this  fault  ? 
•714 


If  but  the  first,  how  heinous  e'er  it  be. 
To  win  thy  after-love,  I  pardon  thee. 

Aum.  Then  give  me  leave  that  I  may  turn  the- 
key, 
That  no  man  enter  till  my  tale  be  done. 

Baling.  Have  thy  desire.    [Aum.  locks  the  door. 
York.    [Within^    My  liege,  beware;  look  to 
thyself; 
Thou  hast  a  traitor  in  thy  presence  there. 

Baling.  Villain,  I  'U  make  thee  safe.     [Drawing. 
Aum.  Stay  thy  revengeful  hand  ; 
Thou  hast  no  cause  to  fear. 

York.  [Within^  Open  the  door,  secure,  fool- 
hardy king : 
Shall  I,  for  love,  speak  treason  to  thy  face  ? 
Open  the  door,  or  I  will  break  it  open. ' 

[BoLiNG.  opens  the  dear 

Enter  York. 

Baling.  What  ie  the  matter,  uncle  ?  speak  , 
Recovei'  breath  ;  tell  us  how  near  is  danger. 
That  we  may  arm  us  to  encounter  it. 

York.  Peruse  this  writing  here,  and  thou  sha. 
know 
The  treason  that  my  haste  forbids  me  show. 

Aum.  Remember,  as  thou  read'st,  thy  promise 
past : 
I  do  repent  me ;  read  not  my  name  there, 
My  heart  is  not  confederate  with  my  hand. 

York.  'T  was,  villain,  ere  thy  hand  did  set  it 
down. — 
I  tore  it  from  the  traitor's  bosom,  king ; 
Fear,  and  not  love,  begets  his  penitence : 
Forget  to  pity  him,  lest  thy  pity  prove 
A  serpent  that  will  sting  thee  to  the  heart. 

Baling.  O  heinous,  strong,  and  bold  conspiracy  I 
0  loyal  father  of  a  treacherous  son  ! 
Thou  sheer,  immaculate,  and  silver  fountain. 
From  whence  this  stream  through  muddy  passages, 
Hath  held  his  current,  and  defil'd  himself! 
Thy  overflow  of  good  convor*^  to  bad ; 
And  thy  abundant  goodness  shall  excuse 
This  deadly  blot  in  thy  digressing  son. 

York.  So  shall  my  virtue  be  his  vice's  bawd; 
And  he  shall  spend  mine  honour  with  his  shai::e 
As  thriftless  sons  their  scraping  fathers'  gold. 
Mine  honour  lives  when  his  dishonour  dies, 
Or  my  sham'd  life  in  his  dishonour  lies : 
Thou  kill'st  me  in  his  life ;  giving  him  breatl:-, 
The  traitor  lives,  the  true  man  's  put  to  death. 

Duch.    [Within  !    What   hf     my   liege!    for 
God's  sake  let  me  in 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    IV. 


Boling.  What  shrill-voic'd  suppliant  makes  this 

eager  cry  ? 
Duck.  A  woman,  and  thine  aunt,  great  king ; 
'tis  I. 
Speak  with  me,  pity  me,  open  the  door : 
A  beggar  begs,  that  never  begg'd  before. 

Boling.  Our  scene  is  alter'd, — from  a  serious 
thing, 
And    now    chang'd    to     "The   Beggar   and   the 

King."— 
My  dangerous  cousin,  let  your  mother  in  ; 
I  know,  she 's  come  to  pray  for  your  foul  sin. 
York.  If  thou  do  pardon,  whosoever  pray, 
More  sins,  for  this  forgiveness,  prosper  may. 
This  fester'd  joint  cut  off,  the  rest  rests  sound  ; 
This,  let  alone,  will  all  the  rest  confound. 

Enter  Duchess. 

Duch.  0  king,  believe  not  this   hard-hearted 
man ; 
Love,  loving  not  itself,  nonp  other  can. 

York.  Thou   frantic  woman,  what  dost  thou 
make  here  ? 
Shall  thy  old  dugs  once  more  a  traitor  rear? 
Duch.  Sweet  York,  be  patient :  Hear  me,  gentle 
liege.  \Kneels. 

Boling.  Rise  up,  good  aunt. 
Duch.  Not  yet,  I  thee  beseech  : 

For  ever  will  I  kneel  upon  my  knees. 
And  never  see  day  that  the  happy  sees, 
Till  thou  give  joy  ;  until  thou  bid  me  joy, 
By  pardoning  Rutland,  my  transgressing  boy, 
Aum.  Unto  my  mother's  prayers,  I  bend  ray 
knee.  [Kneels. 

York.    Against   them    both,    my    true    joints 
bended  be.  \Kneels. 

.11  niay'st  thou  thrive,  if  thou  grant  any  grace ! 
Duch.  Pleads  he  in  earnest?   look  upon  his 
fiice; 
His  eyes  do  drop  no  tears,  his  prayers  are  in  jest ; 
His  words  come  from  his  mouth,  ours  from  our 

breast : 
He  prays  but  faintly,  and  would  be  denied ; 
We  pray  with  heart,  and  soul,  and  all  beside : 
His  weary  joints  would  gladly  rise,  I  know  : 
Our  knees  shall  kneel  till  to   the  ground   they 

grow : 
His  prayers  are  full  of  false  hypocrisy  ; 
Ours,  of  true  zeal  and  deep  integrity. 
Our  prayers  do  out-pray  his ;  then  let  them  have 
That  mercy,  which  true  prayers  ought  to  have. 
Boling.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 


Duch.  ^ay»  ^^  not  say — stand  up  : 

But,  pardon,  first ;  and  afterwards,  stand  up. 
An  if  I  were  thy  nurse,  thy  tongue  to  teach, 
Pardon — should  be  the  first  word  of  thy  speech. 
I  never  long'd  to  hear  a  iVord  till  now  ; 
Say — pardon,  king  ;  let  pity  teach  thee  how  : 
The  word  is  short,  but  not  so  short  as  sweet ; 
No  word  like,  pardon,  for  kings'  mouths  so  meet. 

York.    Speak  it  in  French,  king ;  say,  "  par- 
donnez  may.'''' 

Duch.  Dost  thou  teach  pardon  pardon  to  de- 
stroy ? 
Ah,  my  sour  husband,  my  hard-hearted  lord, 
That  sett'st  the  word  itself  against  the  word  ! — 
Speak,  pardon,  as  't  is  current  in  our  land  ; 
The  chopping  French  we  do  not  understand. 
Thine  eye  begins  to  speaV,  set  thy  tongue  there  : 
Or,  in  thy  piteous  lieart  plant  thou  thine  ear : 
That,  hearing  how  our  plants  and  prayers  do  pierce, 
Pity  may  move  thee,  pardon  to  rehearse. 

Boling.  Good  aunt,  stand  up. 

Duch.  I  do  not  sue  to  stand, 

Pardon  is  all  the  suit  I  have  in  hand. 

Boling.  I  pardon  him,  as  God  shall  pardon  me. 

Duch.  0  happy  vantage  of  a  kneeling  knee  ! 
Yet  am  I  sick  for  fear :  speak  it  again  ; 
Twice  saying  pardon,  doth  not  pardon  twain. 
But  makes  one  pardon  strong. 

Boling.  With  all  my  heart 

I  pardon  him. 

Duch.  A  god  on  earth  thou  art. 

Boling.  But  for  our  trusty  brother-in-law,** — 
and  the  abbot. 
With  all  the  rest  of  that  consorted  crew, — 
Destruction  straifflit  shall  dosr  them  at  the  heels. — 
Good  uncle,  help  to  order  several  powers 
To  Oxford,  or  where'er  these  traitors  are  : 
They  shall  not  live  within  this  world,  I  swear, 
But  I  will  have  them,  if  I  once  know  where. 
Uncle,  farewell, — and  cousin  too,  adieu  : 
Your  mother  well  hath   pray'd,  and  prove  you 
true. 

Duch.  Come,  my  old  son  ; — I  pray  God  make 
thee  new.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter  Exton,  and  a  Servant. 

Exton.    Didst  thou  not  mark  the  king,  what 
words  he  spake  ? 
•'  Have  I  no  friend  will  rid  me  of  this  living  fear  ?** 
Was  it  not  so  ? 

716 


ACT   V. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


SCENE    V. 


Serv.  Those  were  his  very  words. 

Ktton.  ''  Have  I  no  friend  ?"  quoth  he  :  he  spake 
it  twice, 
And  urg'd  it  twice  together;  did  he  not? 
Serv.  He  did. 

JExton.  And,  sj>eaking  it,   he  wistfully  look'd 
on  me ! 
As  who  should  say, — I  would,  thou  wert  the  man 
That  would  divorce  this  terror  from  my  heart ; 
Meaning,  the  king  at  Pomfret.     Come,  let 's  go  ; 
I  aiu  the  king's  fri  *nd,  and  will  rid  his  foe. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Pomfret.  The  Dungeon  of  the  Castle. 
Enter  King  Richard. 

K.  Rich.    I  have  been   studying  how  I  may 
compare 
This  prison,  where  I  live,  unto  the  world : 
And,  for  because  the  world  is  populous, 
And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 
i  cannot  do  it ; — Yet  I  '11  hammer  it  out. 
My  brain  I  '11  prove  the  female  to  my  soul  ; 
My  soul,  the  father :  and  these  two  beget 
A  ijeneration  of  still-breedinff  thuuMhts, 
And  these  same  thoughts  people  this  little  world  ; 
In  humours,  like  the  people  of  this  world, 
For  no  thought  is  contented.     The  better  sort, — 
As  thouglits  of  things  divine, — are  intermix'd 
With  scruples,  and  do  set  the  word  itself 
Against  the  word  : 

As  thus, — "Come,  little  ones;"  and  then  again, — 
"  It  is  as  hard  to  come,  as  for  a  camel 
To  thread  the  postern  of  a  needle's  eye." 
Thoughts  tending  to  ambition,  they  do  plot 
Unlikely  wondei-s  :  how  these  vain  weak  nails 
May  tear  a  passage  through  the  flinty  ribs 
Of  this  hard  world,  my  ragged  prison  walls  ; 
And,  for  they  cannot,  die  in  their  own  pride. 
Thoughts  tending  to  content,  flatter  themselves, — 
That  they  are  not  the  first  of  fortune's  slaves, 
Nor  shall  not  be  the  last ;  like  silly  beggars. 
Who,  sitting  in  the  stocks  refuge  their  shame, — 
That  many  have,  and  others  must  sit  there  : 
And  in  this  thought  they  find  a  kind  of  ease. 
Bearing  their  own  misfortune  on  the  back 
Of  such  as  have  before  endur'd  the  like. 
Thus  play  I,  in  one  person,  many  people, 
And  none  contented  :  Sometimes  am  I  king; 
Then  treason  makes  me  wish  myself  a  beggar. 
And  so  I  am  :  Then  crushing  penury 
Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king ; 
71G 


Then  am  I  king'd  again  :  and,  by-and-by. 
Think  that  I  am  unking'd  by  Bolingbroke, 
And  straight  am  nothing  : — But,  whate'er  I  am, 
Nor  I,  nor  any  man,  that  but  man  is. 
With  nothing  shall  be  pleas'd,  till  he  be  eas'd 
With  being  nothing. — Music  do  I  hear  ?     [Music 
Ha,  ha  !  keep  time  : — How  sour  sweet  music  is. 
When  time  is  broke,  and  no  proportion  kept  1 
So  is  it  in  the  music  of  men's  lives. 
And  here  have  I  the  daintiness  of  ear, 
To  check  time  broke  in.  a  disorder'd  string ; 
But,  for  the  concord  of  my  state  and  tirr.e, 
Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 
I  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me. 
For  now  hath  time  made  me  his  numb'ring  clock: 
My  thoughts  are  minutes  ;  and,  with  sighs,  they 

jar 
Their  watches  on  to  mine  eyes,  the  outward  watch 
Whereto  my  finger,  like  a  dial's  point. 
Is  pointing  still,  in  cleansing  them  from  tears. 
Now,  sir,  the  sound,  that  tells  what  hour  it  is, 
Are  clamorous  groans,  that  strike  upon  my  heait, 
Which  is  the  bell :  So  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans 
Show  minutes,  times,  and  houis  : — but  my  time 
Runs  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke's  proud  joy, 
While  I  stand  fooling  here,  his  Jack  o'  the  clock.^' 
This  music  mads  me,  let  it  sound  no  more  ; 
For,  though  it  have  holpe  madmen  to  their  wits, 
In  me,  it  seems  it  will  make  wise  men  mad. 
Yet  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me  I 
For  't  is  a  sign  of  love ;  and  love  to  Richard 
Is  a  stranofe  brooch  in  this  all-hating  world. 

Enter  Groom. 

Groom.  Hail,  royal  prince  ! 

K.  Rich.  Thanks,  noble  peer; 

The  cheapest  of  us  is  ten  groats  too  dear. 
What  art  thou  ?  and  how  comest  thou  hither, 
Where.no  man  never  comes,  but  that  sad  dog 
That  brings  me  food,  to  make  misfortune  live  ? 

Oroom.  I  was  a  poor  groom  of  thy  stable,  king, 
When  thou  wert  king ;  who,  travelling  towards 

York, 
With  much  ado,  at  length  have  gotten  leave 
To  look  upon  my  sometime  master's  face. 
0,  how  it  yern'd  n^y  heart,  when  I  beheld, 
In  London  streets,  that  coronation  day. 
When  Bolingbroke  lode  on  roan  Barbary ! 
That  horse,  that  thou  so  often  hast  bestrid ; 
That  horse,  that  I  so  carefully  have  dress'd ! 

K.  Rich.  Rode  he  on  Barbary  ?     Tell  me,  gentle 
friend. 


ACT    V 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SEC0J7D. 


SCENE    VI. 


How  went  he  uiirler  liiin  ? 

Groom.    So   proudly,  as   if  he   disdain'd.   the 

ground. 
K.  Rich.  So  proud  that  Bolingbroke  was  on 

his  back ! 
That  jade  hath  eat  bread  from  my  royal  hand ; 
This  hand  hath  made  him  proud  with  clapping 

him. 
Would  he  not  stumble  ?     Would  he  not  fall  down, 
(Since  pride  must  have  a  fall,)  and  break  the  neck 
Of  that  proud  man  that  did  usurp  his  back  ? 
Forgiveness,  horse  1  why  do  I  rail  on  theo. 
Since  thou,  created  to  be  aw'd  by  man, 
Wast  born  to  bear  ?  I  was  not  made  a  horse  ; 
And  yet  I  bear  a  burden  like  an  ass, 
Spur-gall'd,  and  tir'd,  by  jauncing  Bolingbroke. 

Enter  Keeper,  with  a  Dish. 

Keep.  Fellow,  give  place;  here  is  no  longer  stay. 

[  Jb  the  Groom. 
K.  Rich.  If  thou  love  me,  't  is  time  thou  wert 

away. 
Groom.  What  my  tongue  dares  not,  that  my 
heart  shall  say.  [Exit. 

Keep.  My  lord,  will 't  please  you  to  fall  to  ? 
K.  Rich.  Taste  of  it  first,  as  thou  art  wont  to  do. 
Keep.  My  lord,  I  dare  not ;  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton, 
who 
Lately  came  from  the  king,  commands  the  contrary. 
K.  Rich.  The  aerii  take  Henry  of  Lancaster, 
and  thee ! 
Patience  is  stale,  and  I  am  weary  of  it. 

\Beats  the  Keeper. 
Keep.  Help,  help,  help  . 

Enter  Exton,  and  Servants,  armed. 

K.  Rich.  How  now?  what  means  death  in  this 
rude  assault  ? 
Villain,  thy  own  hand  yields  thy  death's  instrument. 
[Snatching  a  weapon,  and  killing  one. 
Go  thou,  and  till  another  room  in  hell. 

[He  kills  another,  then  Exton  strikes  him  down. 
That  hand  shall  burn  in  never-quenching  fire. 
That  staggers  thus  my  person. — Exton,  thy  fierce 

hand 
Hath  with  the  king's  blood  stain'd  the  king's  own 

land. 

Mount,  mount,  ray  soul !  thy  seat  is  up  on  high  ; 

Whilst  my  gross  flesh  sinks  downward,  here  to 

die.''''  [Dies. 

Exton.   As  full  of  valour,  as  of  royal  blood  : 

Both  have  I  spilt;  0,  would  the  deed  were  good! 


For  now  the  devil,  that  told  me — I  did  well, 
Says,  that  this  deed  is  chronicled  in  hell. 
This  dead  king  to  the  living  king  I  '11  bear ; 
Take  hence  the  rest,  and  give  them  burial  here. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  VI.— Windsor.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Flourish. 

Enter  Bolin«broke,  and  York,  with  Lords  and 
Attendants. 

Baling.  Kind  imcle  York,  the  latest  news  we 
hear. 
Is — that  the  rebels  have  consum'd  with  fire 
Our  town  of  Cicester  in  Glostershire ; 
But  whether  they  be  ta'en,  or  slain,  we  hear  aot. 

Enter  Northumberland. 

Welcome,  my  lord  :  What  is  the  news  ? 

North.  First,  to  thy  sacred  state  wish  I  all  hap- 
piness. 
The  next  news  is, — I  have  to  London  sent 
The  heads  of  Salisbury,  Spencer,  Blunt,  and  Kent: 
The  manner  of  their  taking  may  appear 
At  large  discoursed  in  this  paper  here. 

[Presenting  a  Paper. 
Doling.  W^e  thank  thee,  gentle  Percy,  for  thy 
pains ; 
And  to  thy  worth  will  add  right  worthy  gains. 

Enter  Fitzwater. 

Fitz.  My  lord,  I  have  from  Oxfo; ''  sent  to  Lon- 
don 
The  heads  of  Brocas,  and  Sir  Bennet  Seely; 
Two  of  the  dangerous  consorted  traitors, 
That  sought  at  Oxford  thy  dire  overthrow. 

Doling.    Thy   pains,   Fitzwater,    shall    not   be 
forgot ; 
Right  noble  is  thy  merit,  well  I  wot. 

Enter  Percy,  with  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle. 

Percy.  The  grand  conspirator,  abbot  of  West- 
minster, 
With  clog  of  conscience,  and  sour  melancholy. 
Hath  yielded  up  his  body  to  the  grav6  ; 
But  here  is  Carlisle  living,  to  abide 
Thy  kingly  doom,  and  sentence  of  his  pride. 

Doling.  Carlisle,  this  is  your  doom  :"* 
Choose  out  some  secret  place,  some  reverend  room, 
More  than  thou  hast,  and  with  it  joy  thy  life ; 
So,  as  thou  liv'st  in  peace,  die  free  from  strife: 
For  though  mine  enemy  thou  hast  ever  been, 

717 


ACT  V. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


8CSNK     VI. 


High  sparks  of  honour  in  thee  have  I  seen. 

Hunter  Exton,  with  Attendants  bearinr/  a  Coffin. 

Exton.  Great  king,  within  this  coffin  I  present 
Thy  buried  fear ;  herein  all  breathless  lies 
The  mightiest  of  thy  greatest  enemies, 
Richard  of  Bourdeaux,  by  me  hither  brought. 
Boling.  Exton,  I  thank  thee  not ;  for  thou  hast 
wrought 
A  deed  of  slander,  with  thy  fatal  hand. 
Upon  my  head,  and  all  this  famous  land. 

Exton.  From  your  own  mouth,  my  lord,  did  I 

this  deed. 
Boling.  ITiey  love  not  poison  that  do  poison 
need, 
7xi 


Nor  do  I  thee ;  though  I  did  wish  him  dead, 
I  hate  the  murderer,  love  him  murdered. 
The  guilt  of  conscience  take  thou  for  thy  labour, 
But  neither  my  good  word,  nor  princely  favour* 
With  Cain  go  wander  through  the  shade  of  night 

And  never  show  thy  head  by  day  nor  light. 

Lords,  I  protest,  my  soul  is  full  of  woe. 

That   blood   should   sprinkle   me,  to   make   me 

grow : 
Come,  mourn  with  me  for  what  I  do  lament 
And  put  on  sullen  black  incontinent ; 
I  '11  make  a  voyage  to  the  Holy  Land, 
To  wash  this  blood  off  from  my  guilty  \  and  : — 
March  sadly  after ;  grace  my  mournings:  here, 
In  weeping  after  this  untimely  bier,         [Exeunt 


H 


NOTES  TO  KIN&  RICHARD  THE  SECOID. 


'  Inhabitable,  i.  e.  not  habitable,  uninhabitable. 

» li  must  be  great  that  can  inherit  its 
So  nrnch  as  of  a  thought  qfill  in  him. 

To  inlicrit  ua  is  to  possess  us  with ;  though  this  is  an  un- 
jommon  use  of  the  word. 


'  Till  I  have  told  this  slander  of  his  blood. 

Bolingbroke  was  the  king's  cousin ;  Mowbray  having  ac- 
cused him  of  falsehood,  calls  him  a  slander  to  the  blood  of 
majesty,  a  disgrace  to  his  royal  relative. 


*  There  is  no  boot. 
That  is,  there  is  no  advantage  in  delay  or  refusal. 

» The  slavish  native. 
His  tongue ;  motive  is  used  as  instrument. 

»  Alas!  the  part  I  had  in  Gloster''s  blood. 

That  is,  the  nearness  of  my  relationship  to  Gloucester. 
The  Duke  of  Gloucester  was  the  younger  brother  of  John 
of  Lancaster. 

'  AuTuerle. 

Kichard  Duke  of  Aumerle.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of 
Edward  Langley  Duke  of  York,  fifth  son  of  King  Edward 
the  Third.  He  officiated  at  the  lists  at  Coventry,  as  High 
Constable  of  England. 

s  Stay,  the  hing  Itxith  thrown  his  ivarder  down. 

A  warder  appears  to  have  beeia  a  kind  of  truncheon 
carried  by  the  person  who  presided  at  these  combats. 

^  Compassionate  is  used  for  plaintive. 
■  bound  in  with  shame, 


With  inky  blots,  and  rotten  parchment  bonds. 

Gaunt  is  alluding  to  the  king's  having  farmed  out  the 
country  to  his  favourite  the  earl  of  "Wiltshire.  Mr.  Steo- 
vens  says  he  suspects  that  the  poet  wrote  inky  bolts,  that 
is,  written  restrictions,  as  blots  cannot  bind  anything,  and 
holts  correspond  much  better  to  the  word  bonds. 

'"  Queen. 
Tte  introduction  of  tlie  queen  is  an  historical  error. 


Eichard  had  married  Ann,  sister  to  the  emperor  Winces- 
laus,  king  of  Bohemia,  but  she  was  dead  before  the  oora- 
mencement  of  the  play.  Kichard  was  afterwards  affianc-ed 
to  Isabella,  daughter  of  the  king  of  France,  but  this  young 
princess  was  but  a  child  at  his  death. 

"  For  hot  young  colts,  being  rag^d,  do  rage  the  more. 

Mr.  Ritson  would  read — being  rein'd  do  rage  the  more. 
Certainly  more  elegant,  and  probably  the  poet's  own  word. 

13  Which  live  like  venom,,  where  no  ven^om  else. 
But  only  they  have  privilege  to  live. 

This  alludes  to  the  popular  tradition  that  St.  Patrick 
drove  every  kind  of  v<^nomous  reptile  out  of  Ireland, 

><  iVw  the  prevention  of  poor  Bolingbroke 
About  his  marriage. 

Bolingbroke  was  honourably  entertained  at  the  French 
court,  and  would  have  been  married  to  the  only  daughtei 
of  the  Duke  of  Berry,  uncle  to  the  French  king,  had  not 
Eichard  interfered  and  prevented  the  match. 

"  Accomplish'^ d  with  the  number  of  thy  fixmrt. 
That  is,  when  he  was  of  thy  age. ' 

"  And  yet  we  strike  not,  but  securely  perish. 

To  strike  the  sails,  is  to  contract  them  when  there  is  too 
much  wind.  Northumberland  uses  the  word  equivocally 
to  mean  we  see  our  danger,  and  do  not  ami  and  strike  the 
man  who  threatens. 

"  Imp  ovt  our  drooping  country'' s  broken  wing, 

Wlien  a  hawk  lost  some  of  its  wing  feathers  by  any  ao- 
cident,  it  was  usual  to  supply  as  many  as  were  deficient. 
This  operation  was  called  to  imp  a  hawk. 

's  Like  per /ipectives,  which,  rightly  gaz'd  upon, 
Show  nothing  but  confusion  ;  ey'd  awry, 
Distin  gu  ish  form,. 

Tills  is  an  allusion  to  an  optical  toy,  in  which  a  figure 
is  represented  wherein  all  the  rules  of  persj^ective  are  in- 
verted, so  that  if  held  in  the  same  position  with  those 
pictures  which  are  drawn  according  to  the  rales  of  per- 
spective, it  presents  nothing  but  confusion ;  but  looked 
upon  from  a  contrary  position,  or  "  ey'd  awry,''  it  is  ^eon 
in  regular  and  due  proportion, 

719 


NOTES  TO  KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


"  As, — {hough  in  (hinhi/ng,  on  no  thought  I  think, 
Makes  me  with  heavy  nothing  fai/nt  and  shrink. 

The  meaning  is,  though  I  have  no  distinct  idea  of  calami- 
cj',  yet  some  undefined  sliadowy  dread  fills  me  with  appre- 
hension. Every  one  has  sometimes  felt  this  invohintary 
ynd  unaccountable  depression  of  mind. 

'•"'  The  king  had  cut  my  head  off  with  my  1»-other's. 

N6  brother  of  the  Duke  of  York  was  beheaded  ;  he 
alludes  to  the  fate  of  Gloucester,  who,  after  a  life  spent  in 
opposing  and  oppressing  his  nephew,  was  at  length  arrested 
and  secretly  murdered  by  his  orders  at  Calais.  The  duke 
was  smothered  with  a  pillow,  while  in  bed,  and  it  was  re- 
ported that  he  had  died  of  apoplexy,  but  the  circumstances 
all  transpired  in  the  next  reign. 

21  To  take  advantage  of  the  absent  time. 
That  is,  the  time  of  the  king's  absence. 

^^  And  ostentation  of  despised  arms. 

Warburton  says  the  ostentation  of  despised  arms  would 
aot  fright  any  one,  and  suggests  that  we  should  read  dis- 
posed arms,  i.  e.  forces  in  battle  array.  Dr.  Johnson  says, 
"  perhaps  the  old  duke  means  to  treat  him  with  contempt, 
as  well  as  with  severity,  and  to  insinuate  that  he  despises 
ais  power,  as  being  able  to  master  it."  But  this  cannot  be, 
oecause  York  presently  admits  that  his  weakness  alone  pre- 
vents his  opposing  them. 

23  Look  on  my  wrongs  with  an  indifferent  eye. 

Indifferent  does  not  here  mean  inattentive,  but  im- 
partial. 

^  From  my  own  windows  torn  my  household  coat. 

Tliat  is,  took  out  the  coloured  glass  on  which  the  arms 
of  the  family  was  displayed. 

25  To  fight  with  Glendower  and  his  complices. 

Theobald  thinks  this  line  an  interpolation,  and  for  reasons 
which  from  their  probability  I  will  quote  entire.  "  Were 
we  to  acknowledge  the  line  to  be  genuine,  it  must  argue 
the  poet  guilty  of  forgetfulness  and  inattention  to  history. 
Bolingbroke  is,  as  it  were,  but  just  arrived ;  he  is  now  at 
Bristol,  weak  in  his  numbers  ;  has  had  no  meeting  witli  a 
parliament ;  nor  is  so  far  assured  of  the  succession,  as  to 
think  of  going  to  suppress  insurrections  before  he  is  planted 
on  the  throne.  Besides,  we  find  the  opposition  of  Glen- 
dower begins  the  first  part  of  King  Henry  IV.,  and  Morti- 
nierV  defeat  by  that  hardy  Welshman  is  the  tidings  of  the 
fiist  scene  of  that  play.  Again,  though  Glendower,  in  the 
very  first  year  of  IJenry  IV.  began  to  be  troublesome,  put 
in  for  the  supremacy  of  Wales,  and  imprisoned  Mortimer; 
yet  it  was  not  till  the  succeeding  year  that  the  king  em- 
ployed any  force  against  him." 

2»  The  breath  of  worldly  men  cannot  depose 
Tlie  deputy  elected  by  the  Lord. 

TLe  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of  kings,  and  the  pas- 
sive obedience  of  subjects,  is  here  strongly  laid  down.  The 
poet,  however,  puts  this  language  in  the  mouth  of  a  king. 

^  Thy  very  beadsmen  learn  to  bend  their  bows 
Of  double-fatal  yew. 
The  king's  beadsmen  were  his  priests ;  but  beadsman 
7i40 


might  also  mean  any  man  maintained  by  charity  to  pray 
for  his  benefactor.  The  yew  is,  perhaps,  called  double- 
fatal  because  its  leaves  are  poison,  and  the  wood  is  used 
for  instruments  of  death. 

S8  For  taking  so  the  head. 

To  take  the  head,  is  to  act  without  restraint;  to  take  un- 
due liberties. 

2'  Her  knots  disorder  d. 

The  comparison  is  of  the  kingdom  to  a  garden,  and 
knots  are  figures  planted  in  box,  the  lines  of  which  fre- 
quently intersect  each  other. 

0,  I ampress''d  to  death. 


Through  want  of  speaking. 

Nearly  strangled  by  her  emotions ;  but  the  poet  probably 
alludes  to  the  ancient  punishment  called  peine  forte  et  dure, 
which  was  inflicted  on  those  persons  who,  being  arraigned, 
refused  to  plead,  and  remained  obstinately  silent.  They 
were  pressed  to  death  by  a  heavy  weight  being  laid  upon 
the  chest. 

31  Westminster  Hall. 

Westminster  Hall  was  built  by  Richard,  and  the  first 
meeting  of  parliament  in  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  de- 
posing him. 

32  / take  the  earth  to  the  like,  forsworn  Aumerle. 

This  is  an  obscure  line,  which  none  of  the  editors  satis- 
factorily explain.  Dr.  Jolmson  says— "For  th/<  earth,  I 
suppose  we  should  read  thy  octh.^^ 

33  As  I  intend  to  thrive  in  this  new  world. 

In  this  world  which  is  new  to  me,  in  which  I  have  just 
begun  to  be  an  actor. 

3*  Here  do  Ithroio  down  this. 

Holinshed  says  that  on  this  occasion  he  threw  down  a 
hood  that  he  had  borrowed. 

'5  With  my  own  tears  1  wash  away  my  balm. 
That  is,  the  oil  of  consecration. 

s"  That  every  day  under  his  household  roof 
Did  keep  ten  thousana  men. 

It  does  not  appear  that  this  enormous  number  of  re- 
tainers absolutely  lived  under  Eichard's  roof,  but  the  old 
chronicles  say  "that  to  his  household  came  everyday,  to 
meate,  ten  thousand  men."  He  had  three  hundred  domes- 
tics in  his  kitchen,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  this 
prodigality  was  the  source  of  much  exaction,  and  a  great 
cause  of  the  discontent  of  the  people. 

3'  To  Julius  Ocesar^s  ill-erected  tower. 

The  Tower  of  London  is  traditionally  said  to  be  the 
work  of  Julius  Csesar.  Ill-erected  moans  erei-ted  for  evil 
purposes. 

3*  Sent  back  like  Hall^wt?ias. 

All-hallows,  or  Allr-hallowtide,  is  the  first  of  November. 
The  meaning  is,  the  queen  came  from  France  with  the 


NOTES  TO  KING  RICHARD  THE  SECOND. 


jladness  of  spring,  but  that  she  returned  with  the  gloom 
of  winter. 

3'  Better  far  off,  than  near,  he  ne'er  the  near. 

They  may  as  well  be  far  apart  as  near,  but  not  permitted 
to  enjoy  each  other's  society.  To  be  never  the  nigher  is  an 
expression  common  in  the  midland  counties. 

*"  With  painted  imagery,  had  said  at  once. 

It  is  difficult  to  understand  how  the  painted  imagery  could 
have  spoken ;  but,  perhaps,  Shakespeare  was  thinking  of 
the  painted  cloths,  in  which  the  figures  sometimes  had 
labels  issuing  from  their  mouths. 

<'  What  seal  is  that  which  hangs  without  thy  bosom  ? 

The  seals  of  deeds  were  formerly  impressed  on  slips  or 
labels  of  parchment,  appendent  to  them. 

^2  But  for  our  trusty  brother-in-law. 

This  was  John  Duke  of  Exeter  and  Earl  of  Huntingdon 
(own  brother  to  Richard  the  Second),  and  who  married 
Wj'^  the  I^d;  Elizabeth,  sister  of  .Bolingbroke. 
n 


«  Jlis  Jack  of  the  clock. 

The  little  figure  on  some  clocks,  which  is  made  tc  Btrike 
the  hour. 

«  Whilst  my  gross  flesh  sinks  downward,  here  to  die. 

There  has  been  much  controversy  respecting  the  death 
of  Richard,  but  the  following  quotation  from  the  manifesto 
which  the  Percy  family  published  against  Henry  the  Fourth, 
in  the  third  year  of  his  reign,  is  decisive.  They  charge  him 
with  having  "carried  his  sovereign  lord  traitorously  within 
the  castell  of  Pomfret,  without  the  consent  or  the  judge- 
ment of  the  lords  of  the  realm,  by  the  space  of  fifteno 
dales  and  so  many  nightes  (which  is  horrible  among  Chris- 
tian people  to  be  heard),  with  hunger,  thirst,  and  cold,  to 
perish.''''  Had  the  story  of  Sir  Pierce  of  Exton  been  true, 
the  Percy  family  must  have  known  it.  Many  of  the  old 
writers  represent  Richard  as  voluntarily  abstaining  from 
food,  and  dying  of  hunger  and  a  broken  heart. 

♦5  Carlisle,  this  is  your  doom. 

The  bishop  was  committed  to  the  tower,  but  afterwards 
permitted  to  change  his  prison  for  Westminster  Abbey.  Ho 
was  deprived  of  his  see,  and  eventually  retired  to  a  reotorj 
in  GloacesterBhire. 

721 


FIRST  PART   OF 


ling  lenq  tji?  jFntirtji. 

. \-  ■  J 


tlENRY  asceuded  the  throne  in  1399,  and  reigned  for  a  period  of  fourteen  years  ;  he  died  on  the 
20th  of  March,  1413,  at  the  age  of  forty-seven.  His  usurpation  had  been  successful,  his  prede- 
cessor had  perished  unpitied  and  in  obscurity,  he  had  attained  the  rank  of  king,  had  suppressed  all 
insurrections,  «nd  triumphed  over  every  enemy ;  but  when  he  had  thus  reached  the  summit  of  hi? 
ambition,  and  stood  firm  and  unassailable  upon  the  dazzling  pinnacle  of  royalty,  then,  when  evr.ry 
aspiration  of  his  ambitious  heart  was  gratified,  his  overtasked  mind  reacted  upon  hi3  naturally  iror 
frame  ;  his  early  cheerfulness  and  attractive  qualities  forsook  him,  he  became  solitary  in  his  hauits, 
suspicious  and  gloomy  in  his  nature,  his  strength  left  him — he  was  prematurely  old  ;  he  becanie  a 
bigot  in  religion,  and  persecuted  heretics  with  extreme  severity  ;  and  finally,  subject  to  epileptic  fits 
and  afflicted  with  a  cutaneous  disorder,  which  some  have  said  to  be  leprosy,  he  sunk  into  the  grave, 
not  past  the  fulness  of  maturity,  and  scarcely  regretted  by  his  subjects  ;  a  melancholy  instance  tiiat 
wealth  and  power  too  often  fail  to  confer  happiness  upon  their  envied  possessor.  If  the  spirit  of  the 
broken-hearted  and  murdered  Richard  could  have  gazed  upon  the  last  hours  of  Henry  in  the  Jeru- 
salem chamber,  it  might  have  rested  satisfied  and  appeased. 

Sensible  that  a  drama  embracing  only  a  series  of  intrigues  and  acts  of  tergiversation,  of  in- 
surrections and  civil  wars,  and  of  struggles  for  supremacy  between  parties  who  are  neither  of  them  |_ 
entitled  to  much  sympathy  or  respect,  would  possess  little  interest,  Shakespeare  has  introduced  into  ' ; 
this  play,  and  its  companion  one,  the  richest  and  most  brilliant  comedy  that  ever  rose  even  in  the  ' 
cheerful  chambers  of  his  sunny  son].  It  is  the  first  of  those  dramas  which  are,  strictly  speaking,  t 
neither  tragedy,  comedy,  nor  history,  but  a  happy  mingling  of  all  three ;  a  kind  of  drama  peculiar  t' 
to  Shakespeare,  and  singularly  adapted  to  his  comprehensive  and  variable  muse. 

The  first  part  of  Henry  the  Fourth  commences  with  news  of  the  victory  of  his   troops  under 
young  Percy  at  Horaildon   Hill,   in   the   September  of  1402,   and   concludes   with   the   defeat  of 
Ho*:spur  at  Shrewsbury,  on  the  21st  of  July,  1403,  which  latter  event  may  be  said  to  have  placed 
Henry  firmly  in  the  regal  chair.     The  time  comprised  in  this  play  is  therefore  less  than  a  yeaj.     We 
should  be  inclined  to  view  the  struggles  of  Henry  and  Northumberland  with  indignation  and  disgust, 
were  it  not  that  their  cold  and  crafty  policy  is  redeemed  by  the  graceful   pt'ofligacy  and  generous 
courage  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  the   blunt  fiery  nature  of  the  noble  but  unfortunate  Hotspur    \ 
But  the  latter,  though  brave   and   chivalric,  is  too  much   the  warrior;  his  manners  are  rough,  self- |' 
willed,  impetuous,  and  unconciliating.     Haughty  and  ambitious  to  excess,  he  would  break  all  things  \ 
to  his  will  ;  he  laughs  at  the  small  gentle  courtesies  and  elegancies  of  life — for  them  he  has  no  time. 
He  is  abrupt,  if  not  unkind,  to  his  wife,  who  is  too  gentle  to  need  correction  or  reproof;  impatient 
hnd  defiant  to  Glendower ;  for  his  behaviour  to  whom  his  uncle  gently  chides  him,  for — 

Defect  of  manners,  want  of  government, 
Pride,  haughtinesa,  opinion,  and  disdain. 

But  we  forget  his  faults  in  his  misfortunes ;  he  expiates   all  errors  upon  the  blood-stained  field  of 

728 


i 


FIRST  PART  OF 


Shrewsbury.     The  Prin'ce  is  equally  fearless,  but  more  gentle ;  we  like  him  the  bettei  even  for  his 

dissipation;  his  gaiety  and  good-humour  contrast  well  with  the  stern  military  habits  of  Hotspur.     Sir 

Richard  Vernon  gives  a  spirited  description  of  the  Prince  mounting  his  war-steed,  and  armed  for  the 

encounter : — 

1  »<iw  young  Harry,  with  his  beaver  on, 

His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  armed, 

Eise  from  the  ground  like  feathered  Mercury, 

And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat. 

As  if  an  angel  had  dropped  down  from  the  clouds 

To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 

And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

Out  of  the  early  dissipation  of  Prince  Henry,^a  dissipation  to  which  it  is  supposed  that  he 
abandoned  himself  in  consequence  of  the  jealousy  entertained  of  his  growing  popularity  by  tie  king 
his  fathei, — arises,  in  a  very  natural  and  easy  manner,  the  comedy  of  the  play.  And  what  comed'" 
it  IS !  how  hearty,  rollicking,  brilliant,  and  abandoned !  what  glimpses  it  gives  us  of  low  life  in  that 
remote  time  !  it  is  a  social  revelation  of  the  buried  past. 

Falstaff  is  the  very  midsummer  of  mirth,  the  broadest  and  most  intensely  humorous  production 
ever  delineated  by  the  pen  of  the  dramatist ;  not  only  a  "  tun  of  man,"  but  a  tun  of  wit.  With  his 
first  introduction  we  are  at  home  with  him  ;  he  talks  like  an  old  acquaintance,  and  though  he  at  once 
professes  himself  a  thief,  we  are  not  repelled  and  disgusted,  but  feel  a  certain  liking  and  respect  for  him. 
Such  is  the  force  of  wit  and  intellect ;  for  he  is  a  shrewd  man,  and  worldly  wisdom  appears  in  every 
speech  he  utters,  heightened  by  irrepressible  humour.  Take  as  one  instance  among  many,  his  exquisite 
soliloquy  on  honour.  "  Is  it  insensible,  then  f  Yea,  to  the  dead.  But  will  it  not  live  with  the  liv- 
ing ?  No.  Why  ?  Detraction  will  not  suffer  it."  Plato  could  not  have  divulged  a  sounder  philoso- 
phy. 'Falstaff"  is  a  genius  in  sensuality;  he  presents  none  of  the  disgusting  or  repulsive  features  of 
such  a  character ;  glutton,  drunkard,  thief,  liar,  slanderer,  coward,  as  he  must  be  confessed,  he  still 
palliates  all  these  vices  by  his  wit  and  good-humour.,''  One  reason  why  he  is  so  universal  a  favourite 
is  the  utter  absence  of  malice  in  his  nature ;  he  will  gratify  himself  at  any  cost,  but  he  has  no  desire 
;  jto  injure  others;  when  he  does  so  it  is  accidental.  Shakespeare  has  invested  him  with  a  certain  at- 
■'  tractiveness  of  manner  and  charm  of  conversation  ;  the  prince  can  never  long  be  angry  with  him  V 
his  abuse  or  slanders,  and  all  his  associates  are  attached  to  him. 

Depraved  as  Falstaff'  is  in  principle,  he  is  not  offensive  in  his  epicurism  ;  the  prince,  while  drawing 
an  abusive  character  of  him,  says-^"  Wherein  is  he  good  but  to  taste  sack  and  drink  it  ?  wherein  neat 
and  cleanly,  but  to  carve  a  capon  and  eat  it  ?"  which  implies  that  he  was  gentlemanly  and  agreeable  at 
table.  He  is  never  without  a  plausible  reason  or  apology  when  detected  in  any  slander  or  cowardice  ;  his 
\  reply  when  the  prince  reproaches  him  for  running  away  at  Gadshill — "  By  the  Lord,  I  knew  ye  as  wel. 
\  as  he  that  made  ye,"  is  unanswerable.  He  was  a  coward  upon  instinct,  and  would  not  touch  the  true 
1  prince.  There  is  also  a  delicate  covert  flattery  concealed  in  this  excuse.  But  his  answer,  when  the 
prince  detects  his  falsehood  about  the  contents  of  his  pocket,  is  better  still.  "  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal  ? 
thou  knowest  in  the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell ;  and  what  should  poor  Jack  Falstaff"  do  in  the  days 
*  of  villany  ?  Thou  seest  I  have  more  flesh  than  another  man,  and  therefore  more  frailty."  The  cause 
of  morality  is  in  no  degree  injured  by  this  exhibition  of  a  man  at  once  so  attractive  and  vicious ;  with 
most  authors  Falstaff"  would  have  been  a  dangerous  experiment;  they  would  have  made  a  libidinous 
satyr,  ten  times  more  repulsive  than  Silenus,  a  personification  of  depravity,  a  devil  of  lust  and  drunk- 
enness, seen  only  to  be  despised  and  abhorred.  Not  so  with  our  poet,  for  although  Shakespeare  makes 
us  like  the  man,  he  never  palliates  his  misdeeds  ;  he  renders  Falstaff"  attractive,  but  never  captivates 
us  with  lying,  theft,  or  debauchery.  These  vices  stand  forlli  reprehensible  in  themselves  and  fjital  in 
their  results.  The  Prince  is  not  depraved  in  heart ;  his  errors  are  but  the  rude  excrescences  of  an 
untamed  and  fugitive  genius ;  he  rises  on  the  pinions  of  resolution  from  the  corrupt  and  stagnant 
sea  of  sensuality,  and  throwing  off  the  vices  incidental  to  and  natural  in  youth  (especially  where  great 
animal  spirits  are  united  to  a  bold  heart  and  able  mind),  stands  erect  in  the  stern  dignity  of  a  just 
and  sovereign  authority.  15ut  in  Falstaff  the  moral  principle  is  dead  ;  for  him  there  is  no  re- 
formation, no  change,  and  he  dies  in  his  depravity,  a  poor,  discarded,  broken-liearted  man.  Most  of 
V24 


IH 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


his  companions  also  perish  in  poverty  and  infamy.     Here  lies  the  poet's  moral,  and  I  cannot  think  it 
a  feeble  one. 

Falstaff  is  surrounded  by  a  group  of  eccentricities,  who  are  all  laughable  enough  ;  but  he  is  never 
eclipsed  by  them.  They  are  satellites  which  never  rise  into  rivalry  with  that  great  orb  of  mirth.  In 
this  play  we  have  Bardolph,  whose  fiery  carbuncled  nose  serves  as  a  butt  for  the  jests  of  his  companions, 
though  this  character  of  course  tells  better  on  the  stage  than  in  the  study.  Then  we  have  the  voluble 
rogue  Gadshill,  Francis  the  valiant  drawer  with  his  pennyworth  of  sugar,  comfortable  Mrs.  Quickly,  the 
hostess,  and  in  the  second  play  the  noisy  braggart  Pistol,  the  sharp-witted  little  page,  the  lean  garrulous 
Justice  Shallow,  his  cousin  Silence,  and  his  man  Davy;  together  with  that  famous  company  of  re- 
cruits, Mouldy,  Shadow,  Wait,  Feeble,  and  Bullcalf ;  but  still  Sir  John  is  the  master-spirit  of  the  scene. 

The  introduction  of  the  two  carriers,  also,  is  exceedingly  humorous ;  they  are  by  no  means 
simple  people,  nor  do  they  attempt  to  amuse  by  saying  sma»-t  things ;  they  are  portraits,  blunt,  rude, 
unsophisticated,  and  natural.  They  have  evidently  a  suspicion  of  Gadshill ;  they  dislike  his  appear- 
ance, and,  perhaps,  give  a  shrewd  guess  at  his  occupation.  The  care  they  take  of  their  own  property 
is  very  amusing.  "  Lend  me  thy  lantern,  quoth  a'  ?  marry,  I  '11  see  thee  hanged  first.''  These  flea- 
bitten  rustics  are  conservatives,  too,  in  their  way  ;  they  lament  past  times  ;  in  their  estimation,  nothing 
is  so  orderly  or  prosperous  as  it  used  to  be :  and  the  second  carrier  exclaims,  with  regret,  "  This  house 
is  turned,  upside  down,  since  Robin  ostler  died."  Such  is  the  nature  of  the  uncultivated  mind  ;  it 
always  looks  back  with  longing  to  the  past,  without  reference  to  the  character  of  that  past ;  and, 
perhaps,  with  most  of  us,  the  memory  dwells  chiefly  on  the  sunniest  spots  of  life,  and  remains  obli- 
vious to  its  privations  and  terrors.  We  talk  of  the  golden  days  of  old  England,  but  we  forget  the 
tyranny  of  its  monarchs,  the  oppression  of  the  people  by  the  great  nobles,  the  insurrections  and  civil 
wars,  the  ruined  towns,  the  blazing  farm-houses,  the  fields  of  downtrodden  or  smouldering  corn,  the 
viclated  virgins  and  slaughtered  youth,  the  homes  left  ever  desolate,  the  thriving  farmer  made  a 
wandering  beggar  by  fierce  contentions  in  which  he  took  no  interest  and  no  part ;  and,  finally,  the 
gibbet  and  attendant  executioner,  with  the  dresser  on  which  to  embowel  the  victims  of  political  wrath, 
and  the  kindled  fire  ready  to  consume  the  heart  of  the  living  criminal  who  gazed  upon  it,  sustained 
in  those  last  dreadful  moments  by  the  courage  of  despair.  Scenes  like  these  were  but  too  frequent  in 
the  golden  days  of  old  England. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  number  of  characters  which  Shakespeare  has  introduced  into  this 
play,  prevented  his  giving  more  than  a  mere  sketch  of  the  Welsh  patriot,  Owen  Glendower,  though, 
certainly,  that  sketch  is  exceedingly  bold  and  effective.  He  was  a  brave,  but  superstitious  man,  whose 
constant  success  in  warfare  convinced  both  himself  and  his  enemies  that  he  possessed  a  control  over 
the  services  of  evil  spirits.  Some  supposed  him  a  necromancer ;  others,  in  their  ignorant  dread, 
imagined  him  to  be  an  embodiment  of  Satan  Irimself.  Owen  thrice  drove  the  king  out  of  Wales, 
but  he  was  finally  overpowered,  by  Prince  Henry,  who,  in  the  mountains  and  morasses  of  that  wild 
and  picturesque  country,  fighting  against  a  hardy  and  cunning  adversary,  acquired  that  knowledge  of 
warfare  which  in  after  years  rendered  him  so  successful  on  the  shores  of  France.  Glendower  being 
unfortunate,  and,  consequently,  forsaken,  wandered  about  for  a  time  disguised  as  a  shepherd ;  but, 
recovering  his  spirit,  he  again  took  up  arms,  and  died,  at  last,  a  free  man,  amidst  the  mountains  of 
that  beloved  country  which  he  had  so  long  sought  to  enfranchise  from  the  power  of  England. 

The  little  dialogue  between  Mortimer  and  his  wife  is  exceedingly  sweet  and  poetical ;  amidst 
scenes  of  angry  disputation  and  the  storm  of  war,  it  is  like  soft  music  in  a  summer's  night  stealing 
[through  garden  groves  and  over  beds  of  flowers,  soothing  and  enchanting  the  senses,  compared  to 
the  harsh  braying  of  trumpets  and  the  startling  clang  of  cymbals  on  the  marshy  and  blood-soaken 
field  of  war.  Indeed,  throughout  the  play,  many  startling  and  grand  passages  occur,  alternating  with 
exquisite  poetry  and  irresistible  drollery. 

This  drama  was  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  October  20th,  1597,  and  printed  in  that  year;  it, 
and  the  second  part  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  were  probably  both  produced  m  1596. 

725 


s. 


PEESONS    REPEESENTED. 


King  Hexry  the  Fourth. 

Appears^  *  et  I.  sc.  1 ;  bc.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  so.  1 ; 

se.  4 ;  3C.  o. 

Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  Mdest  Son  to  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  2;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  bc.  2; 
sc.  8.    Act  IV.  sc  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc  3 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  5. 

Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  Son  to  the  King. 
Appears^  Act  V.  sc  1 ;  bc  4 ;  sc.  5. 

Earl  ob'  Westmoreland,  Friend  to  the  King. 
r«.  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  4;  sc.  5. 


Sir  Walter  Blunt,  Friend  to  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  2.     Act  IV.  bc  3. 
Act  V.  sc  1 ;  sc  3. 

Thomas  Percy,  Farl  of  Worcester. 

Appears,  Act  I.  ac  8.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3. 
Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  5. 

Henry  Percy,  Earl  of  Northumberland. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  8, 

Henry  Percy,  surnamed  Hotspur,  his  Son. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc  3.    Act  II.  sc.  8.    Act  III.  sc.  I.    Act 
IV.  BC  1 ;  BC.  3.    Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4. 

Edmund  Mortimer,  Farl  of  March. 
Appears,  Act  III.  bc.  1. 

Scroop,  Archbishop)  of  York. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  so.  4. 

Archibald,  Earl  of  Douglas. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  2;  sc  3    s<%4. 
726 


Owen  Glendower. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Sir  Richard  Vernon. 
A2)pears,  Act  IV.  sc.  ] ;  sc.  S.     Act  V.  se.  1 ;  sc  2  *,  &J,  6 

Sir  J  OHN  Falstaff. 

Appeam,  Act  I.  sc  2.    Act  II.  sc.  2;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  ic  S 
Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8 ;  sc  4. 

POINS. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  so.  8. 

Gadshill. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc  4. 

Peto. 
Appears,  Act  11.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4. 

Bardolph. 
Appears,  Act  H.  sc.  2 ;  sc  4.    Act  III.  sc  8.    Act  IV.  so.  2, 

Lady  Percy,  Wife  to  Hotspur,  and  Sister  to 

Mortimer. 

Appears,  Acf  II.  sc.  8.    Act  III.  sc  1. 

Lady  Mortimer,  Daughter  to  Glendower,  and. 

Wife  to  Mortimer. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc  1. 

Mrs.  Quickly,  Hostess  of  a  Tavern  in  Eastchea^. 
Appears,  Act  II.  6C.  4.    A"*^^  III.  sc  8. 

Lords,    Officers,    Sheriff,    Vintner,    Ghamhei-lidn^ 

Drawers,  Two  Cu^rriers,  Travellers,  and 

Attendants. 

SCENE,— Ex^LANa 


FIRST    FART    OF 


ling  lifiiri{  i\\i  jFfltirtj). 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I. — London.     A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Westmoreland,  Sir  Walter 
Blunt,  and  Others. 

K.  Ren.  So  shaken  as  we  are,  so  wan  with  care, 
Find  we  a  time  for  frighted  peace  to  pant, 
A-nd  breathe  short-winded  accents  of  new  broils 
To  be  cominenc'd  in  stronds  afar  remote. 
No  more  the  thirsty  entrails  of  this  soil 
Shall  daub  her  lips  with  her  own  children's  blood  ;' 
No  more  shall  trenching  war  channel  her  fields, 
Nor  bruise  her  flow'rets  with  the  armed  hoofs 
Of  hostile  paces  :  those  opposed  eyes. 
Which, — like  the  meteors  of  a  troubled  heaven, 
All  of  one  nature,  of  one  substance  bred, — 
Did  lately  meet  in  the  intestine  shock 
And  furious  close  of  civil  butchery, 
Shall  now,  in  mutual,  well-beseeming  ranks, 
March  all  one  way ;  and  be  no  more  oppos'd 
Against  acquaintance,  kindred,  and  allies : 
The  edge  of  war,  like  an  ill-sheathed  knife, 
No  more  shall  cut  his  master.     Therefore,  friends. 
As  far  as  to  the  sepulchre  of  Christ, 
(Whose  soldier  now,  under  whose  blessed  cross 
We  are  impressed  and  engag'd  to  fight,) 
Forthwith  a  power  of  English  shall  we  levy  ; 
Whose  arms  were  moulded  in  their  mother's  womb 
To  chase  these  pagans,  in  those  holy  fields, 
Over  whose  acres  walk'd  those  blessed  feet. 
Which,  fourteen  hundred  years  ago,  were  nail'd 
For  our  advantage,  on  the  bitter  cross. 
But  this  our  purpose  is  a  twelve-month  old. 
And  bootless  't  is  to  tell  you — we  will  go  ; 
Therefore  we  meet  not  now  : — Then  let  me  hear 


Of  you,  my  gentle  cousin  Westmorelan  j, 
What  yesternight  our  council  did  decree. 
In  forwarding  this  dear  expedience. 

West.  My  liege,  this  haste  was  hot  in  quoslioc 
And  many  limits  of  the  charge^  set  down 
But  yesternight :  when,  all  athwart,  there  came 
A  post  from  Wales,  loaden  with  heavy  news  ; 
Whose  worst  was, — that  the  noble  Mortimer, 
Leading  the  men  of  Herefordshire  to  fight 
Against  the  irregular  and  wild  Glendower, 
Was  by  the  rude  hands  of  that  Welshman  taken, 
And  a  thousand  of  his  people  butchered  ; 
Upon  whose  dead  corps  there  was  such  misuse. 
Such  beastly,  shameless  transformation, 
By  those  Welshwomen  done,  as  may  not  be, 
Without  much  shame,  re-told  or  spoken  of. 

K.  Hen.  It  seems  then,  that  the  tidings  of  this 
broil 
Brake  off  our  business  for  the  Holy  Land. 

West.  This,  match'd   \vith  other,  did,  ray   gra- 
cious lord  ; 
For  more  uneven  and  unwelcome  news 
Came  from  the  north,  and  thus  it  did  import. 
On  Holy-rood  day,  the  gallant  Hotspur  there, 
Young  Harry  Percy,  and  brave  Archibald, 
That  ever-valiant  and  approved  Scot, 
At  Holmedon  met. 

Where  they  did  spend  a  sad  and  bloody  hour ; 
As  by  dischai-ge  of  their  artillery. 
And  shape  of  likelihood,  the  news  was  told ; 
For  he  that  brought  them,  in  the  very  heat 
And  pride  of  their  contention  did  take  horse, 
Uncertain  of  the  issue  any  way. 

K.  Hen.  Here  is  a  dear  and  true-industrious  friend, 

727 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE    It. 


Sir  Walter  Blunt,  new  lighted  from  his  horse, 
Stain'd  with  the  variation  of  each  soil 
Betwixt  that  Holmedon  and  this  seat  of  ours  ; 
And  he  bath    brought  us  smooth  and  welcome 

news. 
The  earl  of  Douglas  is  discomfited ; 
Ten     thousand     bold     Scots,    two  -  and  -  twenty 

knights, 
Balk'd  in  their  own  blood,  did  sir  Walter  see 
On  Holmedon's  plains :    Of  prisoners.  Hotspur 

took 
Mordake  the  earl  of  Fife,  and  eldest  son 
To  beaten  Douglas  f  and  the  earls  of  Athol, 
Of  Murray,  Angus,  and  Menteith.  . 
And  is  not  this  an  honourable  spoil  ? 
A  gallant  prize  ?  ha,  cousin,  is  it  not  ? 

West.  Faith  't  is  a   conquest  for  a  prince  to 

boast  of. 
K.  Men.  Yea,  there  thou  mak'st  me  sad,  and 

raak'st  me  sin 
In  envy  that  my  lord  Northumberland 
Should  be  the  father  of  so  blest  a,  son ; 
A  son,  who  is  the  theme  of  honour's  tongue ; 
Amongst  a  grove,  the  very  straightest  plant ; 
Who  is  sweet  fortune's  minion,  and  her  pride : 
Whilst  I,  by  looking  on  the  praise  of  him, 
See  riot  and  dishonour  stain  the  brow 
Of  my  young  Harry.     O,  that  it  could  be  prov'd, 
That  sortie  night-tripping  fairy  had  exchang'd 
In  cradle-clothes  our  children  where  they  lay. 
And  call'd  mine — Percy,  his — Plantagenet ! 
Then  would  I  have  his  Harry,  and  he  mine. 
But   let  him  from  my  thoughts : — What  think 

you,  coz'. 
Of  this  young  Percy's  pride  ?  the  prisoners,'' 
Which  he  in  this  adventure  hath  surpris'd, 
To  his  own  use  he  keeps  ;  and  sends  me  word, 
I  shall  have  none  but  Mordake,  earl  of  Fife. 
West.  This  is  his  uncle's  teaching,  this  is  Wor- 
cester, 
Malevolent  to  you  in  all  aspects; 
Which  makes  him  prune  himself,  and  bristle  up 
The  crest  of  youth  against  your  dignity. 

K.  Hen.  But  I  have  sent  for  him  to  answer  this ; 
And,  for  this  cause,  awhile  we  must  neglect 
Our  holy  purpose  to  Jerusalem, 
Cousin,  on  Wednesday  next  our  council  we 
Will  hold  at  Windsor,  so  inform  the  lords : 
But  come  yourself  with  speed  to  us  again ; 
For  more  is  to  be  said,  and  to  be  done. 
Than  out  of  anger  can  be  uttered. 

West,  I  will,  my  liege.  \Exeunt. 

728 


SCENE  11. — The  Same.     Another  Roovi  in  thf. 
Palace.^ 

Enter  Henry  Prince  o/"  Wales,  and  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Now,  Hal,  what  time  of  day  is  it,  lad  ? 

P.  Henry.  Thou  art  so  fat-witted,  with  drinking 
of  old  sack,  and  unbuttoning  thee  after  supper,  and 
sleeping  upon  benches  after  noon,  that  thou  hast 
forgotten  to  demand  that  truly  which  thou  would'st 
truly  know.  What  a  devil  hast  thou  to  do  with 
the  time  of  the  day  ?  unless  hours  were  cups  of 
sack,  and  minutes  capons,  and  clocks  the  tongues 
3f  bawds,  and  dials  the  signs  of  leaping-houses,  and 
the  blessed  sun  himself  a  fair  hot  wench  in  flame- 
colour'd  taffata;  I  see  no  reason,  why  thou  should'st 
be  so  superfluous  to  demand  the  time  of  the  day. 

Fal.  Indeed,  you  come  near  me,  now,  Hal :  foi 
we,  that  take  purses,  go  by  the  moon  and  seven 
stars  ;  and  not  by  Phoebus, — he,  "  that  wandering 
knight  so  fair.""  And  I  pray  thee,  sweet  wag, 
when  thou  art  king, — as,  God  save  thy  grace, 
(majesty,  I  should  say ;  for  grace  thou  wilt  have 
none,) 

P.  Hen.  What !  none  ? 

Fal.  No,  by  my  troth ;  not  so  much  as  will 
serve  to  be  prologue  to  an  egg  and  butter. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  how  then  ?  come,  roundly,  roundly. 

Fal.  Marry,  then,  sweet  wag,  when  thou  art 
king,  let  not  us,  that  are  squires  of  the  night's 
body,  be  called  thieves  of  the  day's  beauty  ;^  let 
us  be — Diana's  foresters,  gentlemen  of  the  shade, 
minions  of  the  moon :  And  let  men  say,  we  be 
men  of  good  government ;  being  governed  as  the 
sea  is,  by  our  noble  and  chaste  mistress  the  moon, 
under  whose  countenance  we — steal. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  say'st  well ;  and  it  holds  well  too : 
for  the  fortune  of  us,  that  are  the  moon's  men, 
doth  ebb  and  flow  like  the  sea  ;  being  governed  as 
the  sea  is,  by  the  moon.  As,  for  proof,  now  :  A 
purse  of  gold  most  resolutely  snatched  on  Monday 
night,  and  most  dissolutely  spent  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing ;  got  with  swearing — lay  by  ;  and  spent  with 
crying — bring  in ;  now,  in  as  low  an  ebb  as  the 
foot  of  the  ladder ;  and,  by  and  by,  in  as  high  a 
flow  as  the  ridge  of  the  gallows. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  thou  say'st  true,  lad.  And 
is  not  my  hostess  of  the  tavern  a  most  sweet 
wench  ? 

P.  Hen.  As  the  honey  of  Hybla,  my  old  lad  of 
the  castle.*  And  is  not  a  buff"  jerkin  a  most  sweet 
robe  of  durance  ? 

Fal.  How  now,  how  now,  mad  wag  ?  what,  in 


ACT    1. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    II. 


thy  quips,  and  thy  quiddities  ?  what  a  plague  have 
I  to  do  with  a  buff  jerkin  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  a  pox  have  I  to  do  with 
my  hostess  of  the  tavern  ? 

Fal.  Well,  thou  hast  called  her  to  a  reckoning, 
many  a  time  and  oft. 

P.  Hen.  Did  I  ever  call  for  thee  to  pay  thy 
part? 

Fal.  No ;  I  '11  give  thee  thy  due,  thou  hast 
paid  all  there. 

P.  Hen.  Yea,  and  elsewhere,  so  far  as  my  coin 
would  stretch  ;  and,  where  it  would  not,  I  have 
used  my  credit. 

Fal.  Yea,  and  so  used  it,  that  were  it  not  here 
apparent  that  thou  ar  their  apparent, — But,  I  pr'y- 
thee,  sweet  wag,  shall  there  be  gallows  standing  in 
England  when  thou  art  king?  and  resolution  thus 
fobbed  as  it  is,  with  the  rusty  curb  of  old  father 
antic  the  law  ?  Do  not  thou,  when  thou  art  king, 
hang  a  thief. 

P.  Hen.  No  ;  thou  shalt. 

Fal.  Shall  I  ?  0  rare  !  By  the  Lord,  I  '11  be  a 
brave  judge. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  judgest  false  already ;  I  mean, 
thou  shalt  have  the  hanging  of  the  thieves,  and  so 
become  a  rare  hangman. 

Fal.  Well,  Hal,  well ;  and  in  some  sort  it 
jumps  with  ray  humour,  as  well  as  waiting  in 
the  court,  I  can  tell  you. 

P.  Hen.  tf'or  obtaining  of  suits  ? 

Fal.  Yea,  for  obtaining  of  suits :  whereof  the 
hangman  hath  no  lean  wardrobe.  'Sblood,  I  am 
as  melancholy  as  a  gib  cat,®  or  a  lugged  bear. 

P.  Hen.  Or  an  old  lion ;  or  a  lover's  lute. 

Fal.  Yea,  or  the  drone  of  a  Lincolnshire  bag- 
pipe. 

P.  Hen.  What  sayest  thou  to  a  hare,  or  the 
melancholy  of  Moor-ditch  ?'" 

Fal.  Thou  hast  the  most  unsavoury  similes ; 
and  art,  indeed,  the  most  comparative,  rascalliest, 
— sweet  young  prince, — But,  Hal,  I  pr'ythee, 
trouble  me  no  more  with  vanity.  I  would  to  God, 
thou  and  I  knew  where  a  commodity  of  good 
names  were  to  be  bought :  An  old  lord  of  the 
council  rated  me  the  other  day  in  the  street  about 
you,  sir ;  but  I  marked  him  not :  and  yet  he 
talked  very  wisely ;  but  I  regarded  him  not :  and 
yet  he  talked  wisely,  and  in  the  street  too. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  did'st  well ;  for  wisdom  cries 
out  in  the  streets,  and  no  man  regards  it. 

Fal.  O  thou  hast  damnable  iteration  ;  and  art, 
indeed,  able  to  corrupt  a  saint.     Thou  hast  done 

»2 


much  harm  upon  me,  Hal, — God  forgive  thee  for 
it !  Before  I  knew  thee,  Hal,  I  knew  nothing ;  and 
noAv  am  I,  if  a  man  should  speak  truly,  little  bettei 
than  one  of  the  wicked.  I  must  give  over  this 
life,  and  I  will  give  it  over ;  by  the  Lord,  an  I  do 
not,  I  am  a  villain ;  I  '11  be  damned  for  never  a 
king's  son  in  Christendom. 

P.  Hen.  Where  shall  we  take  a  purse  to-morrow, 
Jack  ? 

Fal.  Where  thou  wilt,  lad,  I  '11  make  one ;  an 
I  do  not,  call  me  villain,  and  baffle  me. 

P.  Hen.  I  see  a  good  amendment  of  life  in 
thee ;  from  praying,  to  purse-taking. 

Enter  Poins,  at  a  distance. 

Fal.  Why,  Hal,  't  is  my  vocation,  Hal ;  't  is  no 
sin  for  a  man  to  labour  in  his  vocation.  Poins ! — 
Now  shall  we  know  if  Gadshill  have  set  a  match. 
O,  if  men  were  to  be  saved  by  merit,  what  hole  in 
hell  were  hot  enough  for  him  ?  This  is  the  most 
omnipotent  villain,  that  ever  cried.  Stand,  to  a 
true  man. 

P.  Hen.  Good  morrow,  Ned. 

Poins.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hal. — What  says' 
monsieur  Remorse  ?  What  says  sir  John  Sack- 
and-Sugar  ?  Jack,  how  agrees  the  devil  and  thee 
about  thy  soul,  that  thou  soldest  him  on  Good- 
Friday  last,  for  a  cup  of  Madeira,  and  a  cold  ca- 
pon's leg  ? 

P.  Hen.  Sir  John  stands  to  his  word,  the  devil 
shall  have  his  bargain ;  for  he  was  never  yet  a 
breaker  of  proveibs,  he  will  give  the  devil  his  due. 

Poins.  Then  art  thou  damned  for  keeping  thy 
word  with  the  devil. 

P.  -Hen.  Else  he  had  been  damned  for  cozening 
the  devil. 

Poins.  But,  my  lads,  my  lads,  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, by  four  o'clock,  early  at  Gadshill :  There  are 
pilgrims  going  to  Canterbury  with  rich  offerings, 
and  traders  riding  to  London  with  fat  purses :  I 
have  visors  for  you  all,  3'ou  have  horses  for  your- 
selves ;  Gadshill  lies  to-night  in  Rochester ;  I 
have  bespoke  supper  to-morrow  night  in  East- 
cheap  ;  we  may  do  it  as  secure  as  sleep :  If  you 
will  go,  I  will  stuff  your  purses  full  of  crowns ;  if 
you  will  not,  tarry  at  home,  and  be  hanged. 

Fal.  Hear  nie,  Yedward ,  if  I  tarry  at  home, 
and  go  not,  I  '11  hang  you  for  going. 

Poins.  You  will,  chops  ? 

Fal.  Hal,  wilt  thou  make  one  ? 
.      P.  Hen.  Who,  I  rob?  la  thief?  not  I,  by  ray 
faith. 

920 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE    III. 


Fal.  There  s  neither  honesty,  manhood,  nor 
good  fellowship  in  thee,  nor  thou  earnest  not  of 
the  blood  royal,  if  thou  darest  not  stand  for  ten 
shillings." 

P.  Hen.  Well,  then  once  in  my  days  I  '11  be  a 
in  ad-cap. 

Fal.  Why,  that 's  well  said. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  come  what  will,  I  '11  tarry  at 
home. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  I  '11  be  a  traitor  then,  when 
thou  art  king. 

P.  Hen.  I  care  not. 

Poins.  Sir  John,  I  pr'ythee,  leave  the  prince 
and  me  alone ;  I  will  lay  him  down  such  reasons 
for  this  adventure,  that  he  shall  go. 

Fal.  Well,  may'st  thou  have  the  spirit  of  per- 
suasion, and  he  the  ears  of  profiting,  that  what 
thou  speakest  may  move,  and  what  he  hears  may 
be  believed,  that  the  true  prince  may  (for  recrea- 
tion sake,)  prove  a  false  thief;  for  the  poor  abuses 
of  the  time  want  countenance.  Farewell :  You 
shall  find  me  in  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  Farewell,  thou  latter  spring  !  Farewell, 
AU-hallown  summer  !'^  [Fxit  Fal. 

Poins.  Now,  my  good  sweet  honey  lord,  ride 
with  us  to-morroAV  ;  I  have  a  jest  to  execute,  that 
I  cannot  manage  alone.  Falstaff,  Bardolph,  Peto, 
and  Gadshill,  shall  rob  those  men  that  we  have 
already  way-laid ;  yourself,  and  I,  will  not  be 
there;  and  when  they  have  the  booty,  if  you 
and  I  do  not  rob  them,  cut  this  head  from  my 
shoulders. 

P.  Hen.  But  how  shall  we  part  with  them  in 
setting  forth  ? 

Poins.  Why,  we  will  set  forth  before  or  after 
them,  and  appoint  them  a  phice  of  meeting,  where- 
in it  is  at  our  pleasure  to  fail ;  and  then  will  they 
adventure  upon  the  exploit  themselves :  which 
".hey  shall  have  no  sooner  achieved,  but  we  '11  set 
upon  them. 

P.  Hen.  Ay,  but,  't  is  like,  that  they  will  know 
us,  by  our  horses,  by  our  habits,  and  by  every 
other  appointment,  to  be  ourselves. 

Poins.  Tut !  our  liorses  they  shall  not  see,  I  '11 
tie  them  in  the  wood  ;  our  visors  we  will  change, 
after  we  leave  them  ;  and,  sirrah,"  I  have  cases  of 
buckram  for  the  nonce,  to  immask  our  noted  out- 
ward garments. 

P.  Hen.  But  I  doubt,  they  will  be  too  hard 
for  us. 

Poins.  Well,  for  two  of  them,  I  know  them  to 
b«  as  true-bred  cowards  as  ever  tuined  back ;  and 

•730 


for  the  third,  if  he  fight  longer  than  he  sees  reason, 
I  '11  forswear  arms.  The  virtue  of  this  jest  will  be, 
the  incomprehensible  lies  that  this  same  fat  rogue 
will  tell  us,  when  we  meet  at  supper :  how  thirty, 
at  least,  he  fought  with ;  what  wards,  what  blows, 
what  extremities  he  endured  ;  and,  in  the  reproof 
of  this,  lies  the  jest. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  I  '11  go  with  thee ;  provide  us 
all  things  necessary,  and  meet  me  to-morrow 
night'''  in  Eastcheap,  there  I  '11  sup.     Farewell. 

Poins.  Farewell,  my  lord.  \^Fxit  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  I  know  you  all,  and  will  a  while  uphold 
The  uuyok'd  humour  of  your  idleness : 
Yet  herein  will  I  imitate  the  sun ; 
Who  doth  permit  the  base  contagious  clouds 
To  smother  up  his  beauty  from  the  world, 
That,  when  he  please  again  to  be  himself. 
Being  wanted,  he  may  be  more  wonder'd  at. 
By  breaking  through  the  foul  and  ugly  mists 
Of  vapours,  that  did  seem  to  strangle  him. 
If  all  the  year  were  playing  holidays, 
To  sport  would  be  as  tedious  as  to  work ; 
But,  when  they  seldom  come,  they  wish'd-for  come, 
And  nothing  pleaseth  but  rare  accidents. 
So,  when  this  loose  behaviour  I  throw  off, 
And  pay  the  debt  I  never  promised. 
By  how  much  better  than  my  word  I  am. 
By  so  much  shall  I  fiilsify  men's  hopes ; 
And,  like  bright  metal  on  a  sullen  ground. 
My  reformation,  glittering  o'er  my  fiiidt. 
Shall  show  more  goodly,  and  attract  more  eyes, 
Than  that  which  hath  no  foil  to  set  it  off. 
I  '11  so  offend,  to  make  offence  a  skill ; 
Redeeming  time,  when  men  think  least  I  will. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     Another  Boom  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  Kika  Henry,  Northumberland,  Wor- 
cester, Hotspur,  Sir  Walter  Blunt,  and 
Others. 

K.  Hen.  My  blood  hath  been  too  cold  and  tem- 
perate. 
Unapt  to  stir  at  these  indignities, 
And  you  have  found  me  ;  for,  accordingly. 
You  tread  upon  my  patience:  but,  be  sure, 
I  will  from  henceforth  rather  be  myself, 
Mighty,  and  to  be  fear'd,  than  my  condition  ; 
Which  hath  been  smooth  as  oil,  soft  as  young  down, 
•And  therefore  lost  that  title  of  respect. 
Which  the  proud  soul  ne'er  pays,  but  to  the  proud. 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE   m. 


•    Wo?'.  Our  house,  my  sovereign  liege,  little  de- 
serves 
The  scourge  of  greatness  to  be  used  on  it ; 
And  that  same  greatness  too  which  our  own  hands 
Have  holp  to  make  so  portly. 

North.  My  lord, 

K.  Hen.  Worcester,  get  thee  gone,  for  I  see 
danger 
And  disobedience  in  thine  eye  :  0,  sir, 
Your  presence  is  too  bold  and  peremptory. 
And  majesty  might  never  yet  endure 
The  moody  frontier  of  a  servant  brow. 
You  have  good  leave  to  leave  us ;  when  we  need 
Your  use  and  counsel,  we  shall  send  for  you. — 

\Exit  WoR. 
You  were  about  to  speak.  [To  North. 

North.  Yea,  ray  good  lord. 

Those  prisoners  in  your  highness'  name  demanded, 
Which  Harry  Percy  here  at  Holmedon  took, 
Were,  as  he  says,  not  with  such  strength  denied 
As  is  deliver'd  to  your  majesty  : 
Either  envy,  therefore,  or  misprision 
Is  guilty  of  this  fault,  and  not  my  son. 

Hot.  My  liege,  I  did  deny  no  prisoners. 
But,  I  remember,  when  the  tight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage,  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  ray  sword, 
Came  there  a  ceitain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dress'd, 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom  ;  and  his  chin,  new  reap'd, 
Show'd  like  a  stubble-land  at  harvest-home  ; 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner ; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box,  which  ever  and  anon 

He  gave  his  nose,  and  took  't  away  again  ; 

Who,  therewith  angry,  when  it  next  came  therA.. 
Took  it  in  snuflf: — and  still  he  smil'd,  and  talk'd ; 
And,  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by. 
He  call'd  them — untaught  knaves,  unmannerly, 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 
With  many  holiday  and  lady  terms 
He  question'd  me ;  among  the  rest  demanded 
My  prisoners,  in  your  majesty's  behalf. 
I  then,  all  smarting,  with  my  wounds  being  cold, 
To  be  so  pester'd  with  a  popinjay. 
Out  of  my  grief  and  my  impatience, 
Answer'd  neglectingly,  I  know  not  what ; 
He  should,  or  he  should  not ; — for  he  made  me  mad, 
To  see  him  shine  so  brisk,  and  smell  so  sweet. 
And  talk  so  like  a  waiting-gentlewoman, 
Of  guns,  and  drums,  and  wounds,  (God  save  the 
mark  I) 


And  telling  me,  the  sovereign'st  thing  on  earth 
Was  parmaceti,  for  an  inward  bruise  ; 
And  that  it  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 
That  villanous  salt-petre  should  be  digg'd 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroy'd 
So  cowardly  ;  and,  but  for  these  vile  guns. 
He  would  himself  have  been  a  soldier. 
This  bald  unjointed  chat  of  his,  my  lord, 
I  answer'd  indirectly,  as  I  said ; 
And,  I  beseech  you,  let  not  his  report 
Come  current  for  an  accusation, 
Betwixt  my  love  and  your  high  majesty. 

Blunt.  The  circumstance  consider'd,  good  my 
lord, 
Whatever  Harry  Percy  then  had  said. 
To  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place,! 
At  such  a  time,  with  all  the  rest  re-told. 
May  reasonably  die,  and  never  rise 
To  do  him  wrong,  or  any  way  impeach 
What  then  he  said,  so  he  unsay  it  now. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  yet  he  doth  deny  his  prisoners  ; 
But  with  proviso,  and  exception, — 
That  we,  at  our  own  charge,  shall  i-ansom  straight 
His  brother-in-law,  the  foolish  Morti-.rier  ;'* 
Who,  on  my  soul,  hath  wilfully  betray'd 
The  lives  of  those  tb.-L  he  did  lead  to  fight 
Against  the  great  magician,  damn'd  Glendower; 
Whose  daughter,  as  we  hear,  the  earl  of  March 
Hath  lately  married.     Shall  our  cofters  then 
Be  emptied,  to  redeem  a  traitor  home  ? 
Shall  we  buy  treason  ?  and  indent  with  fears, 
Wlien  they  have  lost  and  forfeited  themselves? 
No,  on  the  barren  mountains  let  him  starve : 
For  I  shall  never  hold  that  man  my  frie.iv^, 
Whose  torigue  shall  ask  me  for  one  penny  cost 
To  ransom  home  revolted  Mortimer. 

Hot.  Revolted  Mortimer ! 
He  never  did  fall  oif,  my  sovereign  liege. 
But  by  the  chance  of  war  ; — To  prove  that  true, 
Needs  no  more  but  one  tongue  for  all  those  wounds, 
Those  mouthed  wounds,  which  valiantly  he  took, 
When  on  the  gentle  Severn's  sedgy  bank, 
In  single  opposition,  hand  to  hand. 
He  did  confound  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
In  changing  hardiment  with  great  Glendower : 
Three  times  they  breath'd,  and   three  times  did 

they  drink. 
Upon  agreement,  of  swift  Severn's  flood: 
Who  then,  affrighted  with  their  bloody  looks, 
Ran  fearfully  among  the  trembling  reeds, 
And  hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  bank, 

131 


ACT   I. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE   in. 


Blood-stained  with  these  valiant  combatants. 
Never  did  bare  and  rotten  policy- 
Colour  her  working  with  such  deadly  wounds, 
Nor  never  could  the  noble  Mortimer 
Receive  so  many,  and  all  willingly  ; 
Then  let  him  not  be  slander'd  with  revolt. 

K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  belie  him,  Percy,  thou  dost 
belie  him, 
He  never  did  encounter  with  Glendower ; 
I  tell  thee, 

He  durst  as  well  have  met  the  devil  alone, 
As  Owen  Glendower  for  an  enemy. 
Art  not  ashamed  ?     But,  sicrah,  henceforth 
Let  me  not  hear  you  speak  of  Mortimer : 
Send  me  your  prisoners  with  the  speediest  means, 
Or  you  shall  hear  in  such  a  kind  from  me 
A.S  will  dispiease  you. — My  lord  Northumberland, 
We  license  your  departure  with  your  son  : — 
Send  us  your  prisoners,  or  you  '11  hear  of  it. 

\Exeunt  K.  Hen.,  Blunt,  and  Train. 

Hot.  And  if  the  devil  come  and  roar  for  them, 
I  will  not  send  them : — I  will  after  straight. 
And  tell  him  so  ;  for  I  will  ease  my  heart. 
Although  it  be  with  hazard  of  my  head. 

North.    What,  drunk  with  choler?    stay,  and 
pause  awhile ; 
Here  comes  your  uncle. 

Re-enter  Worcester. 

Hot.  Speak  of  Mortimer  ? 

'Zounds,  I  will  speak  of  him  ;  and  let  iny  soul 
Want  mercy,  if  I  do  not  join  with  him  : 
Yea,  on  his  part,  I  '11  empty  all  these  veins, 
And  shed  my  dear  blood  drop  by  drop  i'  the  dust. 
But  I  will  lift  the  down-trod  Mortimer 
As  high  i'  the  air  as  this  unthankful  king, 
As  this  ingrate  anrl  canker'd  Bolingbroke. 

North.    Brother,    the   king    hath   made    your 
nephew  mad.  \^To  Wor. 

Wor.  Who  struck  this  heat  up,  after  I  was  gonfe  ? 

Hot.  He  will,  forsooth,  have  all  my  prisoners; 
And  when  I  urg'd  the  ransom  once  again 
Of  my  wife's  brother,  then  his  cheek  look'd  pale ; 
And  on  my  face  he  turn'd  an  eye  of  death, 
Trembling  even  at  the  name  of  Mortimer.'* 

Wor.  I  cannot  blame  hiui :  Was  he  not  pro- 
claim'd. 
By  Richard  that  dead  is,  the  next  of  blood  ? 

North.  He  was  :  I  heard  the  proclamation  : 
And  then  it  was,  when  the  unhappy  king 
(Whose  wrongs  in  us  God  pardon  !)  did  set  .orth 
Upon  his  Irish  expedition ; 
782 


From  whence  he,  intercepted,  did  return 
To  be  depos'd,  and  shortly,  murdered. 

Wor.  And  for  whose  death,  we  in   .he  world's 
wide  mouth 
Live  scandaliz'd,  and  foully  spoken  of. 

Hot.  But,  soft,  I  pray  you :  Did  king  Richard 
then 
Proclaim  my  brother  Edmund  Mortimer 
Heir  to  the  crown  ? 

North.  He  did  ;  myself  did  hear  it 

Hot.  Nay,  then  I  cannot  blame  his  cousin  king 
That  wish'd  him  on  the  barren  mountains  starv'd 
But  shall  it  be,  that  you, — that  set  the  crown 
Upon  the  head  of  this  forgetful  man ; 
And,  for  his  sake,  wear  the  detested  blot 
Of  murd'rous  subornation, — shall  it  be. 
That  you  a  world  of  curses  undergo  ; 
Being  the  agents,  or  base  second  means, 
The  cords,  the  ladder,  or  the  hangman  rather  ?— 
O,  pardon  me,  that  I  descend  so  low. 
To  show  the  line,  and  the  predicament, 
Wherein  you  range  under  this  subtle  king. — 
Shall  it,  for  shame,  be  spoken  in  these  days. 
Or  fill  up  chronicles  in  time  to  come. 
That  men  of  your  nobility  and  power. 
Did  gage  them  both  in  an  unjust  behalf, — 
As  both  of  you,  God  pardon  it !  have  done, — 
To  put  down  Richard,  that  sweet  lovely  rose. 
And  plant  this  thorn,  this  canker,  Bolingbroke  ? 
And  shall  it,  in  more  shame,  be  further  spoken. 
That  you  are  fool'd,  discarded,  and  shook  off 
By  him,  for  whom  these  shames  ye  underwent  ? 
No ;  yet  time  serves,  wherein  you  may  redeem 
Your  banish'd  honours,  and  restore  yourselves 
Into  the  good  thoughts  of  the  world  again  : 
Revenge  the  jeering,  and  disdain'd  contempt. 
Of  this  proud  king;  who  studies,  day  and  night, 
To  answer  all  the  debt  he  owes  to  you, 
Even  with  the  bloody  payment  of  your  deaths. 

Therefore,  I  say, 

Wor.  Peace,  cousin,  say  no  more  : 

And  now  I  will  unclasp  a  secret  book, 
And  to  your  quick-conceiving  discontents 
I  'II  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangerous ; 
As  full  of  peril  and  advent'rous  spirit. 
As  to  o'er-walk  a  current,  roaring  loud. 
On  tlie  unsteadiest  footing  of  a  spear. 

Hot.   If  he  fall  in,  good  night : — or  sink  oi 
swim : — 
Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  AVest, 
So  honour  cross  it  from  the  north  to  south. 
And  let  them  grapple ; — O  '  '^he  blood  more  stira, 


ACT   11. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE  in. 


To  rouse  a  Hon,  than  to  start  a  hare. 

North.  Imagination  of  some  great  exploit 
Orives  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience. 

Hot.  By  heaven,   methinks,   it  were   an  easy 
leap, 
To  pluck  bright  honour  from  the  pale-fac'd  moon  ; 
Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 
Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 
And  pluck  up  drowned  honour  by  the  locks  ; 
So  he,  that  doth  redeem  her  thence,  might  wear, 
Without  corrival,  all  her  dignities  : 
But  out  upon  this  half-fac'd  fellowship  ! 

Wor,  He  apprehends  a  world  of  figures  here, 
But  not  the  form  of  what  he  should  attend. — 
Good  cousin,  give  me  audience  for  a  while. 

Hot.  I  cry  you  mercy. 

Wor.                            Those  same  noble  Scots, 
That  are  your  prisoners, 

Hot.  I  '11  keep  them  all ; 

By  heaven,  he  shall  not  have  a  Scot  of  them : 
No,  if  a  Scot  would  save  his  soul,  he  shall  not : 
I  '11  keep  them,  by  this  hand. 

Wor.  You  start  away, 

And  lend  no  ear  unto  my  purposes. — 
Those  prisoners  you  shall  keep. 

Hot.  Nay,  I  will ;  that 's  flat  :— 

Ho  said,  he  would  not  ransom  Mortimer; 
Fiirbad  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mortimer ; 
But  I  will  find  him  when  he  lies  asleep. 
And  in  his  ear  I  '11  holla — Mortimer  ! 
Nay, 

I  '11  have  a  starling  shall  be  taught  to  speak 
Nothing  but  Mortimer,  and  give  it  him. 
To  keep  his  anger  still  in  motion. 

Wor,  Hear  you, 

Cousin ;  a  word. 

Hot.  All  studies  here  I  solemnly  defy. 
Save  how  to  gall  and  pinch  thid  Bolingbroke  : 
And    that    same    sword-and-buckler    prince    of 

Wales,'' 
But  that  I  think  his  father  loves  him  not, 
And  would  be  glad  he  met  with  some  mischance, 
I  'd  have  him  poison'd  with  a  pot  of  ale. 

Wor.  Farewell,  kinsman  !  I  will  talk  to  you, 
When  you  are  better  temper'd  to  attend. 

North.  Why,  what  a  wasp-stung  and  impatient 
fool 
Art  thou,  to  break  into  this* woman's  mood  ; 
Tving  thine  ear  to  no  tonmie  but  thine  own  ? 

Hot.  Why,  look  you,  lam  whipp'd  and  scourg'd 
with  rods, 
Nettled,  and  stung  with  pismires,  when  I  hear 


Of  this  vile  politician,  Bolingbroke. 
In  Richard's  time, — What  do  you  call  the  place  ? — 
A  plague  upon  't ! — it  is  in  Gloucestershire ; — 
'T  was  where  the  mad-cap  duke  his  uncle  kept; 
His  uncle  York ; — where  I  first  bow'd  my  knee 
Unto  this  king  of  smiles,  this  Bolingbroke, 
When  you  and  he  came  back  from  Ravenspurg. 

North.  At  Berkley  castle. 

Hot.  You  say  true : 

Why,  what  a  candy  deal  of  courtesy 
This  fawning  greyhound  then  did  proffer  me ! 
Look, — "when  his  infant  fortune  came  to  age," 
And,< — "  gentle  Harry  Percy," — and,  "  kind  cou- 
sin,"— 

0,  the  devil  take  such  cozeners  ! God  forgive 

me ! 

Good  uncle,  tell  your  tale,  for  I  have  done. 
Wor.  Nay,  if  you  have  not,  to  't  again  ; 
We  '11  stay  your  leisure. 

Hot.  I  have  done,  i'  faith. 

Wor.  Then  once  more  to  your  Scottish  prisoneis. 
Deliver  them  up  without  their  ransom  straight, 
And  make  the  Douglas'  son  your  only  mean 
For  .powers  in  Scotland  ;  which, — for  divers  rea- 
sons. 
Which  I  shall  send  you  written, — be  assur'd, 
Will  easily  be  granted. — You,  my  lord, — 

[To  North. 
Your  son  in  Scotland  being  thus  employ'd, — 
Shall  secretly  into  the  bosom  creep 
Of  that  same  noble  prelate,  well  belov'd. 
The  archbishop. 

Hot.  Of  York,  is  't  not  ? 

Wor.  True  ;  who  bears  hard 
His  brother's  death  at  Bristol,  the  lord  Scroop. 
I  speak  not  this  in  estimation, 
As  what  I  think  might  be,  but  what  I  know 
Is  ruminated,  plotted,  and  set  down  ; 
And  only  stays  but  to  behold  the  face 
Of  that  occasion  that  shall  bring  it  on. 

Hot.  I  smell  it ;  upon  my  life,  it  will  do  well. 

North.  Before  the  game's  a-foot,  thou  still  lett'st 
slip. 

Hot.  Why,  it  cannot  choose  but  be  a  noble 
plot ; — 
And  then  the  power  of  Scotland,  and  of  York, — 
To  join  with  Mortimer,  ha  ? 

Wor.  And  so  they  shall. 

Hot.  In  faith,  it  is  exceedingly  well  aim'd. 

Wor.  And  't  is  no  little  reason  bids  us  spee<i, 
To  save  our  heads  by  raising  of  a  head  : 
For,  bear  ourselves  as  even  as  we  cai, 

788 


ACT   I 


FIEST  PART  OF 


SCENE   I. 


The  king  will  always  think  him  in  our  debt ; 
And  think  we  think  ourselves  unsatisfied, 
Till  he  hath  found  a  time  to  pay  us  home. 
And  see  already,  how  he  doth  begin 
To  make  us  strangers  to  his  looks  of  love. 

Hot.  He  does,  he  does ;  we  '11  be  reveng'd  on 
him. 

Wor.  Cousin,  farewell  :'^ — No  further  go  in  this, 
Than  I  by  letters  shall  direct  your  course. 
When  time  is  ripe,  (which  will  be  suddenly,) 


I'll  steal  to  Glendower,  and  lord  Mortimer; 
Where  you  and  Douglas,  and  our  pc-vers  at  once. 
(As  I  will  fashion  it,)  shall  happily  meet. 
To  bear  our  fortunes  in  our  own  strong  arms, 
Which  now  we  hold  at  much  uncertainty. 

North.  Farewell,  good  brother ;  we  shall  thrive; 
I  trust. 

Hot.  Uncle,  adieu : — 0,  let  the  hours  be  short. 

Till  fields,  and  blows,  and  groans  applaud  our 

sport !  \ Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— Rochester.     An  Inn  Yard. 

Enter  a  Carrier,  with  a  Lantern  in  his  hand. 

1st  Car.  Heigh  ho  !  An  't  be  not  four  by  the 
day,  I  '11  be  hang'd  :  Charles'  wain''  is  over  the 
new  chimney,  and  yet  our  horse  not  packed. 
What,  ostler ! 

Ost.  \^Within.^  Anon,  anon. 

1st  Car.  I  pr'ythee,  Tom,  beat  Cut's  saddle,  put 
a  few  flocks  in  the  point ;  the  poor  jade  is  wrung 
in  the  withers  out  of  all  cess.^" 

Enter  another  Carrier. 

2nd  Car.  Pease  and  beans  are  as  dank  here  as 
a  dog,  and  that  is  the  next  way  to  give  poor  jades 
the  bots  :^'  this  house  is  turned  upside  down,  since 
Robin  ostler  died. 

1st  Car.  Poor  fellow !  never  joyed  since  the  price 
of  oats  rose ;  it  was  the  death  of  him. 

2nd  Car.  I  think,  this  be  the  most  villanous 
house  in  al'  London  road  for  fleas  :  I  am  stung 
like  a  tench. 

Is^  Car.  Like  a  tench  ?  by  the  mass,  there  is 
ne'er  a  king  in  Christendom  could  be  better  bit 
than  I  have  been  since  the  first  cock. 

2nd  Car.  Why,  they  will  allow  us  ne'er  a  jor- 
den,  and  then  wo  leak  in  your  chimney ;  and  your 
chamber-lie  breeds  fleas  like  a  loach.^' 

1st  Car.  What,  ostler !  come  away  and  be 
hanged,  come  away. 

2nd  Car.  I  have  a  gammon  of  bacon,  and  two 
razes  of  ginger,  to  be  delivered  as  far  as  Charing- 
erdss. 

784 


1st  Car.  'Odsbody!  the  turkeys  in  my  pannier 
are  quite  starved. — What,  ostler ! — A  plague  on 
thee !  hast  thou  never  an  eye  in  thy  head  ?  canst 
not  hear  ?  An  't  were  not  as  good  a  deed  aa 
drink,  to  break  the  pate  of  thee,  I  am  a  very 
villain. — Come,  and  be  hanged  : — Hast  no  faith 
in  thee? 


Enter  Gadshill. 


Gads. 


What 


Good     morrow,     carriers, 
o'clock  ? 

1st  Car.  I  think  it  be  two  o'clock.^^ 

Gads.  I  pr'ythee,  lend  me  thy  lantern,  to  see 
my  gelding  in  the  stable. 

1st  Car.  Nay,  soft,  I  pray  ye ;  I  know  a  trick 
worth  two  of  that,  i'  faith. 

Gads.  I  pr'ythee,  lend  me  thine. 

2nd  Car.  Ay,  when  ?  canst  tell  ? — Lend  me  thy 
lantern,  quoth  a'? — marry,  I'll  see  thee  hanged 
first. 

Gads.  Sirrah  carrier,  what  time  do  you  mean 
to  come  to  London  ? 

2nd  Car.  Time  enough  to  go  to  bed  with  a 
candle,  I  warrant  thee. — Come,  neighbour  Mugs, 
we'll  call  up  the  gentlemen  ;  they  will  along  with 
company,  for  they  have  great  charge. 

[^Exetmt  Carriers. 

Gads.  What,  ho  !  chamberlain  ! 

Cham.  [  Within.']  At  hand,  quoth  pick-purse. 

Gads.  That  's  even  as  fair  as — at  hand,  quoth 
the  chamberlain  :  for  thou  variest  no  more  from 
pickir^  of  purses,  than  giving  direction  doth  i'rom 
labouring;  thou  lay'st  the  plot  how. 


ACT    11. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE   n. 


Enter  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good  morrow,  master  Gadshill.  It  holds 
current,  that  I  told  you  yesternight :  There  's  a 
franklin*'  in  the  wild  of  Kent,  hath  brought  three 
hundred  marks  with  him  in  gold  :  I  heard  him 
tell  it  to  one  of  his  company,  last  night  at  sup- 
per ;  a  kind  of  auditor ;  one  that  hath  abun- 
dance of  charge  too,  God  knows  what.  They  are 
up  already,  and  call  for  eggs  and  butter :  They 
will  away  presently. 

Gads.  Sirrah,  if  they  meet  not  with  saint 
Nicholas'  clerks,*^  I  '11  give  thee  this  neck.         " 

Cham.  No,  I  '11  none  of  it :  I  pr'ythee,  keep 
that  for  the  hangman  ;  for,  I  know,  thou  wor- 
shipp'st  saint  Nicholas  as  truly  as  a  man  of  false- 
hood may. 

Gads.  What  talkest  thou  to  me  of  the  hang- 
man ?  if  I  hang,  I  '11  make  a  fat  pair  of  gallows  : 
for,  if  I  hang,  old  sir  John  hangs  with  me ;  and, 
thou  knowest,  he  's  no  starveling.  Tut !  there  are 
other  Trojans^®  that  thou  dreamest  not  of,  the 
which,  for  sport  sake,  are  content  to  do  the  pro- 
fession some  grace  ;  that  would,  if  matters  should 
be  looked  into,  for  their  own  credit  sake,  make 
all  whole.  I  am  joined  with  no  foot  land-rakers, 
no  long-staff,  sixpenny  strikers ;  none  of  these 
mad,  mustachio  purple-hued  malt-worms :"  but 
with  nobility,  and  tranquillity ;  burgomasters, 
and  great  oneyers  f^  such  as  can  hold  in  ;  such 
as  will  strike  sooner  than  speak,  and  speak 
sooner  than  drink,  and  drink  sooner  than 
pray :  And  yet  I  lie ;  for  they  pray  continu- 
ally to  their  saint,  the  commonwealth  :  or, 
rather,  not  pray  to  her,  put  prey  on  her ;  for 
they  ride  up  and  down  on  her,  and  make  her 
their  boots. 

Cham.  What,  the  commonwealth  their  boots  ? 
will  she  hold  out  water  in  foul  way  ? 

Gads.  She  will,  she  will ;  justice  hath  liquored 
her.  We  steal  as  in  a  castle,  cock-sure :  we  have 
the  receipt  of  fern-seed,  we  walk  invisible.^^ 

Cham.  Nay,  by  my  faith ;  I  think  you  are 
more  beholden  to  the  night,  than  to  fern-seed,  for 
your  walking  invisible. 

Gads.  Give  rae  thy  hand :  thou  shalt  have  a 
share  in  our  purchase,  as  I  am  a  true  man. 

Cham.  Nay,  rather  let  me  have  it,  as  you  are 
a  false  thief. 

Gads.  Go  to ;  Homo  is  a  common  name  to  all 
men.  Bid  the  ostler  bring  my  gelding  out  of  the 
stnble.     Fare\\;ell,  you  muddy  knave. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— The  Road  by  Gadshill. 

JEnter  Prince  Henry,  and  Poins  ;  Bardolph 
and  Peto,  at  some  distance. 

Poins.  Come,  shelter,  shelter ;  I  have  removed 
FalstafTs  horse,  and  he  frets  like  a  gummed  velvet. 
P.  Hen,  Stand  close. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Poins !  Poins  and  be  hanged  !  Poins ! 

P.  Hen.  Peace,  ye  fat-kidneyed  rascal :  What 
a  brawling  dost  thou  keep  ! 

Fal.  Where  's  Poins,  Hal  ? 

P^  Hen.  He  is  walked  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill ; 
I  '11  go  seek  him.  [Pretends  to  seek  Poins. 

Fal.  I  am  accursed  to  rob  in  that  thief's  com- 
pany :  the  rascal  hath  removed  my  horse,  and 
tied  him  I  know  not  where.  If  I  travel  but  four 
foot  by  the  squire  further  afoot,  I  shall  break  my 
wind.  Well,  I  doubt  not  but  to  die  a  fair  death 
for  all  this,  if  I  'scape  hanging  for  killing  that 
rogue.  I  have  forsworn  his  company  hourly  any 
time  this  two-and-twenty  years,  and  yet  I  am  be- 
witched with  the  rogue's  compa,ny.  If  the  rascal 
have  not  given  me  medicines  to  make  me  love  him. 
I  '11  be  hanged ;  it  could  not  be  else ;  I  have  drunk 
medicines. — Poins  ! — Hal !  — a  plague  upon  you 
both !— Bardolph  !— Peto !— I '11  starve,  ere  I'll 
rob  a  foot  further.  An  't  were  not  as  good  a  deed 
as  drink,  to  turn  true  man,  and  leave  these  rogues, 
I  am  the  veriest  varlet  that  ever  chewed  with  a 
tooth.  Eight  yards  of  uneven  ground,  is  three- 
score and  ten  miles  afoot  with  me  ;  and  the  stony- 
hearted villains  know  it  well  enough :  A  plague 
upon  't,  when  thieves  cannot  be  true  to  one  an- 
other! [They  whistle, \  Whew! — A  plague  upon 
you  all !  Give  me  my  horse,  you  rogues ;  give 
me  my  horse,  and  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen,  Peace,  ye  fat-guts  !  lie  down  ;  lay  thine 
ear  close  to  the  ground,  and  list  if  thou  canst  hear 
the  tread  of  travellers. 

Fal,  Have  you  any  levers  to  lift  me  up  again, 
being  down  ?  'Sblood,  I  '11  not  bear  mine  own 
tiesh  so  far  afoot  again,  for  all  the  coin  in  thy 
father's  exchequer.  What  a  plague  mean  ye  to 
colt  me  thus  f° 

P.  Hen.  Thou  liest,  thou  art  not  colted,  thou 
art  uncolted. 

Fal,  I  pr'ythee,  good  prince  Hal,  help  me  to 
my  horse;  good  king's  son. 

P.  Hen.  Out,  you  rogue !  shall  I  be  your  ostler ! 

Fal,  Go,  hang  thyself  in  thy  own  heir-apparent 

785 


ACT    11. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE    til. 


garters !  If  I  be  ta'en,  I  'II  peach  for  this.  An  I 
have  not  ballads  made  on  you  all,  and  sung  to 
filthy  tunes,  let  a  cup  of  sack  be  my  poison: 
When  a  jest  is  so  forward,  and  afoot  too, — I 
hate  it. 

Enter  Gadshill. 

Gads.  Stand. 

Fal.  So  I  do,  against  my  -will. 

Poins.  O,  't  is  our  setter :  I  know  his  voice. 

Enter  Bardolph. 

Bard.  What  news  ? 

Gads.  Case  ye,  case  ye ;  on  with  your  visors ; 
ihere  's  money  of  the  king's  coming  down  the  hill ; 
't  is  going  to  the  king's  exchequer. 

Fal.  You  lie,  you  rogue ;  't  is  going  to  the 
king's  tavern. 

Gads.  There  's  enough  to  make  us  all. 

Fal.  To  be  hanged. 

P.  Hen.  Sirs,  you  four  shall  front  them  in  the  nar- 
row lane ;  Ned  Poins  and  I  will  walk  lower :  if  they 
'scape  from  your  encounter,  then  they  light  on  us. 

Peto.  How  many  be  there  of  them  ? 

Gads.  Some  eight,  or  ten. 

Fal.  Zounds  !  will  they  not  rob  us  ? 

P.  Hen.  What,  a  coward,  sir  John  Paunch  ? 

Fal.  Indeed,  I  am  not  John  of  Gaunt,  your 
grandfather ;  but  yet  no  coward,  Hal. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  we  leave  that  to  the  proof. 

Poins.  Sirrah  Jack,  thy  horse  stands  behind 
the  hedge ;  when  thou  needest  him,  there  thou 
shalt  find  him.     Farewell,  and  stand  fast. 

Fal.  Now  cannot  I  strike  him,  if  I  should  be 
hanged. 

P.  Hen.  Ned,  where  are  our  disguises  ? 

Poins.  Here,  hard  by ;  stand  close. 

[Exeunt  P.  Hen.  and  Poins. 

Fal.  Now,  my  masters,  happy  man  be  his  dole, 
say  I ;  every  man  to  his  business. 

Enter  Travel!.^'' 

\st  Trav.  Come,  neighbour ;  the  boy  sLr.'Uead 
our  horses  down  the  hill :  we  'U  walk  afoot  a  while, 
and  ease  our  legs. 

Thieves.  Stand. 

Trav.  Jesu  bless  us  ! 

Fal.  Strike ;  down  with  them ;  cut  the  villains' 
throats:  Ah!  whorson  caterpillars!  bacon-fed 
knaves !  they  hate  us  youth  :  down  with  them ; 
fleece  them. 

\st  Trav.  0,  we  are  undone,  both  we  and  ours, 
for  ever. 

786 


Fal.  Hang  ye,  gorbellied  knaves :  Are  ye  un- 
done ?  No,  ye  fat  chuffs  ;  I  would,  your  store  were 
here !  On,  bacons,  on  !  What,  ye  knaves  ?  young 
men  must  live:  You  are  grand-jurors  are  ye? 
We  '11  jure  ye,  i'  faith. 

[Exeunt  Fal.  dec,  driving  the  Travs.  out. 

Re-enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  The  thieves  have  bound  the  true  men  : 
Now  could  thou  and  I  rob  the  thieves,  and  go 
merrily  to  London,  it  would  be  argument  for  a 
week,  laughter  for  a  month,  and  a  good  jest  for 
ever. 

Poins.  Stand  close,  I  hear  them  coming. 

Re-enter  Thieves. 

Fal.  Come,  my  masters,  let  us  share,  and  then 
to  horse  before  day.  An  the  prince  and  Poins  bo 
not  two  arrant  cowards,  there 's  no  equity  stirring : 
there  's  no  more  valour  in  that  Poins,  than  in  a 
wild  duck. 

P.  Henry.  Your  money. 

[Rushing  out  upon  them. 
Poins.  Villains. 

[As  they  are  sharing,  the  Prince  and  Poins 
set  upon   them.     Falstaff,  after  a  blow 
or  two,  and  the  rest,  run  away,  leaving 
their  booty  behind  themi\ 
P.  Hen.  Got  with  much  ease.    Now  merrily  to 
horse: 
The  thieves  are  scatter'd,  and  possess'd  with  lear 
So  strongly,  that  they  dare  not  meet  each  other ; 
Each  takes  his  fellow  for  an  oflBcer. 
Away,  good  Ned.     Falstaff  sweats  to  death, 
And  lards  the  lean  earth  as  he  walks  along : 
Wer  't  not  for  laughing,  I  should  pity  him. 
Poins.  How  the  rogue  roar'd  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Warkworth.  A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Hotspur,  reading  a  Letter}^ 

-"  But,  for  mine  own  part,  my  lord,  I  could 


^ :  well  contented  to  be  there,  in  respect  of  the 
love  I  bear  your  house." — He  could  be  contented, 
— Why  is  he  not  then  ?  In  respect  of  the  love  he 
bears  our  house: — he  shows  in  this,  he  loves  his 
own  barn  better  than  he  loves  our  house.  Let  me 
see  some  more.  "  The  purpose  you  undertake  is 
dangerous  ;" — Why,  that 's  certain  ;  't  is  dangerous 
to  take  a  cold,  to  sleep,  to  drink :  but  I  tell  you, 
my  lord  fool,  out  of  this  nettle,  danger,  we  pluck 
this  flower,  safety     "  The  purpose  you  undertake, 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE  m. 


is  dangerous;  the  friends  you  have  named,  uncer- 
tain ;  the  time  itself  unsorted ;  and  your  whole 
plot  too  light,  for  the  counterpoise  of  so  great  an 
opposition." — Say  you  so,  say  you  so  ?  I  say  unto 
you  again,  you  are  a  shallow,  cowardly  hind,  and 
you  lie.  What  a  lack-brain  is  this?  By  the 
Lord,  our  plot  is  a  good  plot  as  ever  was  laid  ;  our 
friends  true  and  constant :  a  good  plot,  good 
friends,  and  full  of  expectation  :  an  excellent  plot, 
very  good  friends.  What  a  frosty-spirited  rogue 
is  this  ?  Why,  my  lord  of  York  commends  the 
plot,  and  the  general  course  of  the  action.  'Zounds, 
an  I  were  now  by  this  rascal,  I  could  brain  him 
with  his  lady's  fan.  Is  there  not  my  father,  my 
uncle,  and  myself?  lord  Edmund  Mortimer,  my 
lord  of  York,  and  Owen  Glendower  ?  Is  there  not, 
besides,  the  Douglas  ?  Have  I  not  all  their  letters, 
to  meet  me  in  arms  by  the  ninth  of  the  next 
month  ?  and  are  they  not,  some  of  them,  set  for- 
ward already  ?  What  a  pagan  rascal  is  this  ?  an 
infidel  ?  Ha  !  you  shall  see  now,  in  very  sincerity 
of  fear  and  cold  heart,  will  he  to  the  king,  and  lay 
open  all  our  proceedings.  O,  I  could  divide  my- 
self, and  go  to  buffets,  for  moving  such  a  dish  of 
skimmed  milk  with  so  honourable  an  action ! 
llaug  him  1  let  him  tell  the  king :  We  are  pre- 
pared :  I  will  set  forward  to-night. 

Enter  Lady  Percy. 

How  now,  Kate  ?  I  must  leave  you  within  these 

two  hours. 
Lady.  O  my  good  lord,  why  are  you  thus  alone  ? 
For  what  offence  have  I,  this  fortnight,  been 
A  banish'd  woman  from  my  Harry's  bed  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  lord,  what  is 't  that  takea  from  thee 
Tliy  stomach,  pleasure,  and  thy  golden  sleep? 
Why  dost  thou  bend  thine  eyes  upon  the  earth ; 
And  start  so  often  when  thou  sitt'st  alone  ? 
Why  hast  thou  lost  the  fresh  blood  in  thy  cheeks  ; 
And  given  my  treasures,  and  my  rights  of  thee. 
To  thick -ey'd  musing,  and  curs'd  melancholy  ? 
In  thy  faint  slumbers,  I  by  thee  have  watch 'd. 
And  heard  thee  murmur  tales  of  iron  wars : 
Speak  terms  of  manage  to  thy  bounding  steed  ; 
Cry,  "  Courage ! — to  the  field  !"     And  thou  hast 

talk'd 
Of  sallies,  and  retires  ;  of  trenches,  tents, 
Of  palisadoes,  frontiers,  parapets ; 
Of  basilisks,  of  cannon,  culverin  ; 
Of  prisoners'  ransom,  and  of  soldiers  slain, 
And  all  the  'currents  of  a  heady  fight. 
Thy  spirit  within  thee  hath  been  so  at  war, 

98 


And  thus  hath  so  bestirr'd  thee  in  thy  sleep, 
That  beads  of  sweat  have  stood  upon  thy  brow, 
Like  bubbles  in  a  late-disturbed  stream  ; 
And  in  thy  face  strange  motions  have  appear'd. 
Such  as  we  see  when  men  restrain  their  breath 
On  some  great  sudden  haste.     0,  what  portenta 

are  these  ? 
Some  heavy  business  hath  my  lord  in  hand, 
And  I  must  know  it,  else  he  loves  me  not. 

Hot.  What,  ho !  is  Gilliams  with  the  packet 

gone  ? 


Serv. 
Hot. 

Serv. 
Hot. 
not? 
Serv. 
Hot. 


Enter  Servant. 

He  is,  my  lord,  an  hour  ago. 
Hath  Butler  brought  those  horses  from 
the  sherift"? 

Oneho!3e,  my  lord,  he  brought  even  now. 
What  horse  ?    a  roan,  a  crop-year,  is  it 


It  is,  my  lord. 

That  roan  shall  be  my  throae. 
Well,  I  will  back  him  straight :  O  esperance  P^ — 
Bid  Butler  lead  him  forth  into  the  park, 

[^Exit  Serv 

Lady,  But  hear  you,  my  lord. 

Hot.  What  say'st,  my  lady  ? 

Lady.  What  is  it  carries  you  away  ? 

Hot.  My  horse, 

My  love,  my  horse. 

Lady.                       Out,  you  mad-headed  ape  1 
A  weasel  hath  not  such  a  deal  of  spleen, 
As  you  are  toss'd  with.     In  faith, 
I  '11  know  your  business,  Harry,  that  I  will. 
I  fear,  my  brother  Mortimer  doth  stir 
About  his  title  ;  and  hath  sent  for  you. 
To  line  his  enterprise :  But  if  you  go 

Hot.  So  far  afoot,  I  shall  be  weary,  love. 

Lady.  Come,  come,  you  paraquito,  answer  me 
Directly  to  this  question  that  I  ask. 
In  faith,  I  '11  break  thy  little  finger,  Harry. 
An  if  thou  wilt  not  tell  me  all  things  true. 

Hot.  Away, 
Away,  you  trifler  ! — Love  ? — I  love  thee  not, 
I  care  not  for  thee,  Kate  :  this  is  no  world, 
To  play  with  mammets,  and  to  tilt  with  lips : 
We  must  have  bloody  noses,  and  crack'd  ci-owns, 
And    pass    them    current   too. — Gods    me,    my 

horse  ! — 
What  say'st  thou,  Kate  ?  what  would'st  thou  have 
with  me  ? 

Lady.  Do  you  not  love  me  ?  do  you  not,  indeed  ? 
Well,  do  not  then  ;  for,  since  you  love  me  not, 

787 


ACT    J  I. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE    IV. 


I  will  not  love  myself.     Do  you  not  love  me  ? 
Nay,  tell  me,  if  you  speak  in  jest,  or  no. 

Hot.  Come,  wilt  thou  see  me  ride  ? 
And  when  I  am  o'  horse-back,  I  will  swear 
I  love  thee  infinitely.     But  hark  you,  Kate  ; 
I  must  not  have  you  henceforth  question  me 
Whither  I  go,  nor  reason  whereabout : 
Whither  I  must,  I  must ;  and,  to  conclude. 
This  evening  must  I  leave  you,  gentle  Kate. 
I  know  you  wise  ;  but  yet  no  further  wise, 
Than  Harry  Percy's  wife  :  constant  you  are ; 
But  yet  a  woman  :  and  for  secrecy, 
No  lady  closer ;  for  I  well  believe. 
Thou  wilt  not  utter  what  thou  dost  not  know  ; 
And  so  far  will  I  trust  thee,  gentle  Kate  ! 

Lady.  How  !  so  far  ? 

Hot.    Not  an   inch  further.     But   hark   you, 
Kate ! 
Whither  I  go,  thither  shall  you  go  too  ; 
To-day  will  I  set  forth,  to-morrow  you. — 
Will  this  content  you,  Kate  ? 

Lady.  It  must,  of  force. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Eastcheap.     A  Room  in  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern. 

Enter  Pkince  Henry  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  Ned,  pr'ythee,  come  out  of  that  fat 
room,  and  lend  me  thy  hand  to  laugh  a  little. 

Poins.  Where  bast  been,  Hal  ? 

P.  Hen.  With  three  or  four  loggerheads, 
amongst  three  or  four  score  hogsheads.  I  have 
sounded  the  very  base  string  of  humility.  Sin-ah, 
I  am  sworn  brother  to  a  leash  of  drawers ;  and 
can  call  them  all  by  their  Christian  names,  as — 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Francis.  They  take  it  already 
upon  their  salvation,  that,  though  I  be  but  prince 
of  Wales,  yet  I  am  the  king  of  courtesy ;  and  tell 
me  flatly  I  am  no  proud  Jack,  like  Falstaff;  but 
a  Corinthian,  a  lad  of  mettle,  a  good  boy, — by  the 
Lord,  so  they  call  me ;  and  when  I  am  king  of 
England,  I  shall  command  all  the  good  lads  in 
Eastcheap.  They  call — drinking  deep,  dying 
scarlet ;  and  when  you  breathe  in  your  watering, 
they  cry — hem !  and  bid  you  play  it  off. — To 
conclude,  I  am  so  good  a  proficient  in  one  quarter 
of  an  hour,  that  I  can  drink  with  any  tinker  in 
his  own  language  during  my  life.  I  tell  thee, 
Ned,  thou  hast  lost  much  honour,  that  thou  wert 
aot  with  me  in  this  action.  But,  sweet  Ned, — to 
weeten  which  name  of  Ned,  I  give  thee  this  pen- 
738 


nyworth  of  sugar,  clapped  even  now  in  my  hand 
by  an  under-skinker  ;  one  that  never  spake  other 
English  in  his  life,  than — "Eight  shillings  and 
sixpence,"  and — "  You  are  welcome ;"  with  this 
shrill  addition, — "  Anon,  anon,  sir  !  Score  a  pint 
of  bastard  in  the  Half-moon,"  or  so.  But,  Ned, 
to  drive  away  the  time  till  Falstaff  come,  I  pr'y- 
thee, do  thou  stand  in  some  by-room,  while  I 
question  my  puny  drawer,  to  what  end  he  gave  me 
the  sugar  ;  and  do  thou  never  leave  calling — 
Francis,  that  his  tale  to  me  may  be  nothing  but — • 
anon.     Step  aside,  and  I  '11  show  thee  a  precedent, 

Poins.  Francis ! 

P.  Hen.  Thou  art  perfect. 

Poins.  Francis  1  [Exit  Poins. 

Enter  Francis. 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. — Look  down  into  the 
Pomegraiiate,  Ralph. 

P.  Hen.  Come  hither,  Francis. 

Fran.  My  lord. 

P.  Hen.  How  long  hast  thou  to  serve,  Francis  ? 

Fran.  Forsooth,  five  year,  and  as  much  as  to — 

Poins.  [  Within.^  Francis  ! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Five  years  !  by'rlady,  a  long  lease  for 
the  clinking  of  pewter.  But,  Francis,  darest  thou 
be  so  valiant,  as  to  play  the  coward  with  thy 
indenture,  and  to  shew  it  a  fair  pair  of  lieels,  and 
run  from  it  ? 

Fran.  0  lord,  sir !  I  '11  be  sworn  upon  all  the 
books  in  England,  I  could  find  in  my  heart — 

Poins.  [  Within?^  Francis  ! 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  How  old  art  thou,  Francis? 

Fran.  Let  me  see, — About  Michaelmas  next  I 
shall  be — 

Poins.  [  Within.]  Francis  ! 

Fran.  Anon,  sir. — Pray  you,  stay  a  little,  my 
lord. 

P.  Hen.  Nay,  but  hark  you,  Francis :  For  the 
sugar  thou  gavest  me, — 't  was  a  pennyworth,  was 't 
not? 

Fran.  O  lord,  sir  !  I  would,  it  had  been  two. 

P.  Hen.  I  will  give  thee,for  it  a  thousand  posnd : 
ask  me  when  thou  wilt,  and  thou  shall  have  it. 

Poins.  [  Within.]  1^'rancis  !  "'^ 

Fran.  Anon,  anon. 

P.  Hen.  Anon,  Francis  ?  No,  Francis :  but  to- 
morrow, Francis ;  or,  Francis,  on  Thursday ;  oi 
indeed,  Francis,  when  thou  wilt.     But,  Francis, — 

Fran.  My  lord  ? 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENKY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    IV. 


P.  Hen.  Wilt  thou  rob  this  leathern-jerkin, 
crystal-button,  nott-pated,  agate-ring,  puke-stock- 
ing, caddis-g&rter,^^  smooth-tongue,  Spanish- 
pouch, — 

Fran.  O  lord,  sir,  who  do  you  mean  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why  then,  your  brown  bastard'''  is 
your  only  drink  :  for,  look  you,  Francis,  your  white 
canvas  doublet  will  sully  :  in  Barbary,  sir,  it  can- 
not come  to  so  much. 

Fran.  What,  sir  ? 

Poins.  [  Within^  Francis  ! 

P.  Hen.  Away,  you  rogue  :  Dost  thou  not  hear 
them  call  ? 

[Here  they  both  call  him  ;  the  Drawer  stands 
amazed^  not  knowing  which  way  to  go. 

Enter  Vintner. 

Vint.  Wliat !  stand'st  thou  still,  and  hear'st 
such  a  calling  ?  Look  to  the  guests  within.  [Exit 
Fran.]  My  lord,  old  sir  John,  with  half  a  dozen 
more,  are  at  the  door :  Shall  I  let  them  in  ? 

P.  Hen.  Let  them  alone  awhile,  and  then  open 
the  door.  [Exit  Vint.]  Poins  ! 

Re-enter  Poins. 

Poins.  Anon,  anon,  sir. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  Falstaff  and  the  rest  of  the 
thieves  are  at  the  door :  Shall  we  be  merry  ? 

Poins.  As  merry  as  crickets,  my  lad.  But 
hark  ye  :  What  cunning  match  have  you  made 
with  this  jest  of  the  drawer  ?  come,  what's  the  issue  ? 

P.  Hen.  I  am  now  of  all  humours,  that  have 
show'd  themselves  humours,  since  the  old  days  of 
goodman  Adam,  to  the  pupil  age  of  this  present 
twelve  o'clock  at  midnight.  [Re-enter  Fran. 
with  Wine.~\    What 's  o'clock,  Francis  ? 

Fran.  Anon,  anon,  sir, 

P.  Hen.  That  ever  this  fellow  should  have  fewer 
words  than  a  parrot,  and  yet  the  son  of  a  woman  ! — 
His  industry  is — up-stairs,  and  down-stairs ;  his  elo- 
quence, the  parcel  of  a  reckoning.  I  am  not  yet 
of  Percy's  mind,  the  Hotspur  of  the  north ;  he 
that  kills  me  some  six  or  seven  dozen  of  Scots  at 
a  breakfast,  washes  his  hands,  and  says  to  his 
wife, — "  Fye  upon  this  quiet  life  !  I  want  work." 
''  O  my  sweet  Harry,"  says  she,  "  how  many  hast 
thou  killed  to-day  ?"  "  Give  my  roan  horse  a 
drench,"  says  he ;  and  answers,  "  Some  fourteen," 
an  hour  after  ;  "  a  trifle,  a  trifle."  I  pr'ythee,  call 
in  FnlstaflT;  I'll  play  Percy,  and  that  damned 
brawn  shah  play  dame  Mortimer  his  wife.  "  Rivo," 
"avs  the  drunkard."     Call  in  ribs,  call  in  tallow. 


Enter  Falstaff,  Gadshill,  Bardolph,  and  Peto. 

Poins.  Welcome,  Jack.   Where  hast  thou  been ! 

Fal.  A  plague  of  aU  cowards,  I  say,  and  a  ven- 
geance too  !  marry,  and  amen  ! — Give  me  a  cup 
of  sack,  boy. — Ere  I  lead  this  life  long,  I  '11  sew 
nether-stocks,  and  mend  them,  and  foot  them  too. 
A  plague  of  all  cowards  ! — Give  me  a  cup  of  sack, 
rogue. — Is  there  no  virtue  extant  ?       [He  Irinks. 

P.  Hen.  Didst  thou  never  see  Titan  kiss  a  dish 
of  butter  ?  pitiful-hearted  Titan,  that  melted  at 
the  sweet  tale  of  the  son  I^"  if  thou  didst,  then  be- 
hold that  compound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  here  's  lime  in  this  sack  too  : 
There  is  nothing  but  roguery  to  be  found  in  vil- 
lanous  man  :  Yet  a  coward  is  worse  than  a  cup  of 
sack  with  lime  in  it;  a  villanous  coward. — Go 
thy  ways,  old  Jack;  die  when  thou  wilt,  if  man- 
hood, good  manhood,  be  not  forgot  upon  the  face 
of  the  earth,  then  am  I  a  shotten  herring.  There 
live  not  three  good  men  unhanged  in  England  ; 
and  one  of  them  is  fat,  and  grows  old  :  God  help 
the  while  !  a  bad  world,  I  say  !  I  would,  I  were  a 
weaver ;  I  could  sing  psalms  or  any  thing  :'^  A 
plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say  still. 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  wool-sack  ?  what  nmtter 
you  ? 

Fal.  A  king's  son  !  If  I  do  not  beat  thee  out 
of  thy  kingdom  with  a  dagger  of  lath,  and  drive 
all  thy  subjects  afore  thee  like  a  flock  of  wild 
geese,  I  '11  never  wear  hair  on  ray  face  more.  You 
prince  of  Wales  ! 

P.  Hen.  Why,  you  whoreson  round  man ! 
what  's  the  matter  ? 

Fal.  Are  you  not  a  coward  !  answer  me  to  that ; 
and  Poins  there  ? 

Poins.  'Zounds,  ye  fat  paunch,  and  ye  call  me 
coward,  I  '11  stab  thee. 

Fal.  I  call  thee  coward !  I  '11  see  thee  damned 
ere  I  call  thee  coward  :  but  I  would  give  a 
thousand  pound,  I  could  run  as  fast  as  thou 
canst.  You  are  straight  enough  in  the  shoulders, 
you  care  not  who  sees  your  back  :  Call  you  that 
backing  of  your  friends  ?  A  plague  upon  such 
backing  !  give  me  them  that  will  face  me. — Give 
me  a  cup  of  sack  : — I  am  a  rogue,  if  I  drunk 
to-day. 

P.  Hen.  O  villain  !  thy  lips  are  scarce  wiped 
since  thou  drunk'st  last. 

Fal.  All  's  one  for  that.  A  plague  of  all  cow- 
ards, still  say  I.  [He  drinks 

P.  Hen.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

7«9 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCKNE    IV. 


Fal.  What 's  the  matter  ?  there  be  four  of  us 
here  have  ta'en  a  thousand  pounds  this  morning. 

P.  Hen.  Where  is  it,  Jack  ?  where  is  it  ? 

Fal.  Where  is  it  ?  taken  from  us  it  is  :  a  hun- 
dred upon  poor  four  us. 

P.  Hen.  What,  a  hundred,  man  ? 

Fal.  I  am  a  rogue,  if  I  were  not  at  half-sword 
with  a  dozen  of  them  two  hours  together.  I  have 
scajfd  by  miracle.  I  am  eight  times  thrust 
through  the  doublet ;  four,  through  the  hose ; 
my  buckler  cut  through  and  through  ;  my  sword 
hacked  like  a  hand-saw,  ecce  signum.  I  never 
dealt  better  since  I  was  a  man  :  all  would  not  do. 
A.  plague  of  all  cowards ! — Let  them  speak  :  if 
they  speak  more  or  less  than  truth,  they  are  vil- 
lains, and  the  sons  of  darkness. 

P.  Hen.  Speak,  sii's ;  how  was  it  ? 

Oads.  We  four  sei  upon  some  dozen, 

Fal.  Sixteen,  at  least,  my  lord. 

Gads.  And  bound  them. 

Petro.  No,  no,  they  were  not  bound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  they  were  bound,  every  man 
of  them  ;  or  I  am  a  Jew  else,  an  Ebrew  Jew. 

Gads,  As  we  were  sharing,  some  six  or  seven 
fresh  men  set  upon  us, 

Fal.  And  unbound  the  rest,  and  then  come  in 
the  other. 

P.  Hen.  What,  fought  ye  with  them  all  ? 

Fal.  AH  ?  I  know  not  what  ye  call,  all  ;  but  if 
[  fought  not  with  fifty  of  them,  I  am  a  bunch  of 
radish  :  if  there  were  not  two  or  three  and  fifty 
upon  poor  old  Jack,  then  am  I  no  two-legged 
creature. 

Poins.  Pray  God,  you  have  not  murdered  some 
of  them. 

Fal.  Nay,  that 's  past  praying  for  :  for  I  have 
peppered  two  of  them  :  two,  I  am  sure,  I  have 
paid  ;  two  rogues  in  buckram  suits.  I  tell  thee 
what,  Hal, — if  I  tell  thee  a  lie,  spit  in  my  face,  call 
me  horse.  Thou  knowest  my  old  ward  ; — here  I 
lay,  and  thus  I  bore  my  point.  Four  rogues  in 
buckram  let  drive  at  me, 

P.  Hen.  What,  four  ?  thou  said'st  but  two, 
even  now. 

Fal.  Four,  Hal ;  I  told  thee  four. 

Poins.  Ay,  ay,  he  said  four. 

Fal.  These  four  came  all  a-front,  and  mainly 
thrust  at  me.  I  made  me  no  more  ado,  but  took 
all  their  seven  points  in  ray  target,  thus. 

P.  Hen.  Seven  ?  why,  there  were  but  four  even 

DOW. 

Fal.  In  buckram  ? 
140 


Poins.  Ay,  four,  in  buckram  suits. 

Fal.  Seven,  by  these  hilts,  or  I  am  a  villaij 
else. 

P.  Hen.  Pr'ythee,  let  him  alone ;  we  shall  hav€ 
more  anon. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear  me,  Hal  ? 

P.  Hen.  Ay,  and  mark  thee  too.  Jack. 

Fal.  Do  so,  for  it  is  worth  the  listening  to 
These  nine  in  buckram,  that  I  told  thee  of, 

P.  Hen.  So,  two  more  already. 

Fal.  Their  points  being  broken, 

Poins.  Down  fell  their  hose. 

Fal.  Began  to  give  me  ground  :  but  I  followed 
me  close,  came  in  foot  and  hand  ;  and,  with  a 
thought,  seven  of  the  eleven  I  paid. 

P.  Hen.  O  monstrous !  eleven  buckram  men 
grown  out  of  two  ! 

Fal.  But,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  three  mis- 
begotten knaves,  in  Kendal  green,  came  at  my 
back,  and  let  drive  at  me ; — for  it  was  so  dark, 
Hal,  that  thou  could'st  not  see  thy  hand. 

P.  Hen.  These  lies  are  like  the  father  that  be- 
gets them  ;  gross  as  a  mountain,  open,  palpable. 
Why,  thou  clay-brained  guts  ;  thou  knotty-pated 
fool ;    thou    whoreson,    obscene,    greasy    tallow 
keech,'® 

Fal.  What,  art  thou  mad  ?  art  thou  mad  ?  is 
not  the  truth,  the  truth  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  how  could'st  thou  know  these 
men  in  Kendal  green,  when  it  was  so  dark  thou 
could'st  not  see  thy  hand  ?  come  tell  us  your 
reason  :  What  sayest  tliou  to  this  ? 

Poins.  Come,  your  reason,  Jack,  your  reason. 

Fal.  What,  upon  compulsion  ?  No  ;  were  I  at 
the  strappado,  or  all  the  racks  in  the  world,  I 
would  not  tell  you  on  compulsion.  Give  you  a 
reason  on  compulsion  !  if  reasons  were  as  plenty 
as  blackberries,  I  would  give  no  man  a  reason 
upon  compulsion,  I. 

P.  Hen.  I  '11  be  no  longer  guilty  of  this  sm  , 
this  sanguine  coward,  this  bed-presser,  this  horso 
back-breaker,  this  huge  hill  of  flesh  ; 

Fal.  Away,  you  starveling,  you  elf-skin,''''  you 
dried  neats-tongue,  bull's  pizzle,  you  stock-fish, — 
0,  for  breath  to  utter  what  is  like  thee ! — you 
tailor's  yard,  you  sheath,  you  bow-case,  you  vile 
standing  tuck ; 

P.  Hen.  Well,  breathe  awhile,  and  then  to  it 
again :  and  when  thou  hast  tired  thyself  in  base 
comparisons,  hear  me  speak  but  this. 

Poins.  Mark,  Jack. 

P.  Hen.  We  two  saw  you  four  set  on  four 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCEKE    IV. 


vou    bound    them,    and    were    masters   of    their 

wealth. Mark  now,  how  plain  a  tale  shall  put 

you  down. — Then  did  we  two  set  on  you  four : 
and,  with  a  word  out-faced  you  from  your  prize, 
and  have  it;  yea,  and  can  show  it  you  here  in 
the  house  : — and,  Falstaff,  you  carried  your  guts 
away  as  nimbly,  with  as  quick  dexterity,  and 
roared  for  mercy,  and  still  ran  and  roared,  as  ever 
I  heard  bull-calf.  What  a  slave  art  thou,  to  hack 
thy  sword  as  thou  hast  done ;  and  then  say,  it 
was  in  fight  ?  What  trick,  what  device,  what 
starting-hole,  canst  thou  now  find  out,  to  hide 
thee  from  this  open  and  apparent  shame  ? 

Polns.  Come,  let 's  hear,  Jack :  What  trick  hast 
thou  now  ? 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  I  knew  ye,  as  well  as  he 
that  made  ye.  Why,  hear  ye,  my  masters :  Was 
it  for  me  to  kill  the  heir  apparent  ?  Should  I 
turn  upon  the  true  prince  ?  Why,  thou  knowest, 
I  am  as  valiant  as  Hercules  :  but  beware  instinct ; 
the  lion  will  not  touch  the  true  prince.  Instinct 
is  a  great  matter  ;  I  was  a  coward  on  instinct.  I 
shall  think  the  better  of  myself  and  thee,  during 
my  life ;  I,  for  a  valiant  lion,  and  thou  for  a  true 
prince.     But,  by  the  Lord,  lads,  I  am   glad  you 

have  the  money, Hostess,  clap  to  the  doors  ; 

watch  to-night,  pray  to-morrow. — Gallants,  lads, 
boys,  hearts  of  gold.  All  the  titles  of  good  fellow- 
ship come  to  you  !  What,  shall  we  be  merry  ? 
shall  we  have  a  play  extempore  ? 

P.  Hen.  Content ; — and  the  argument  shall  be, 
thy  running  away. 

Fal.  Ah !  no  more  of  that,  Hal,  an  thou 
lovest  me. 

Enter  Hostess. 

Host.  My  lord  the  prince, 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lady  the  hostess  ?  what 
say'st  thou  to  me  ? 

Host.  Marry,  my  lord,  there  is  a  nobleman  of 
the  court  at  door,  would  speak  with  you  :  he  says, 
he  comes  from  your  father. 

P.  Hen.  Give  him  as  much  as  will  make  him 
a  royal  man,^"  and  send  him  back  again  to  my 
mother. 

Fal.  What  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Host.  An  old  man. 

Fal.  What  doth  gravity  out  of  his  bed  at  mid- 
night ? — Shall  I  give  him  his  answer  ? 

P.  Hen.  Pr'ythee,  do.  Jack. 

Fal.  'Faith,  and  I  '11  send  him  packing.     \Exit. 

P.  Hen.  Now,  sirs ;  by  'r  lady,  you  fought  fair  ; 


— so  did  you,  Peto  ; — so  did  you,  Bardolph  :  you 
are  lions  too,  you  ran  away  upon  instinct,  you  will 
not  touch  the  true  prince  ;  no, — fie ! 

Bard.  'Faith,  I  ran  when  I  saw  others  run. 

P.  Hen.  Tell  me  now  in  earnest,  How  came 
Falstaft"'s  sword  so  hacked  ? 

Peto.  Why,  he  hacked  it  with  his  dagger  ;  and 
said,  he  would  swear  truth  out  of  England,  but  he 
would  make  you  believe  it  was  done  in  fight; 
and  persuaded  us  to  do  the  like. 

Bard.  Yea,  and  to  tickle  our  noses  with  spear- 
grass,  to  make  them  bleed  ;  and  then  to  beslubbei 
our  garments  with  it,  and  to  swear  it  was  the  blood 
of  true  men.  I  did  that  I  did  not  this  seven  year 
before,  I  blushed  to  hear  his  monstrous  devices. 

P.  Hen.  0  villain,  thou  stolest  a  cup  of  sack 
eighteen  years  ago,  and  wert  taken  with  the  man- 
ner, and  ever  since  thou  hast  blushed  extempore: 
Thou  hadst  fire  and  sword  on  thy  side,  and  yet 
thou  ran'st  away  :  What  instinct  hadst  thou  for  it ! 

Bard.  My  lord,  do  you  see  these  meteors  ?  do 
you  behold  these  exhalations  ? 

P.  Hen.  I  do. 

Bard.  What  think  you  they  portend  ? 

P.  Hen.  Hot  livers  and  cold  purses. 

Bard.  Choler,  my  lord,  if  rightly  taken. 

P.  Hen.  No,  if  rightly  taken,  halter. 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Here  comes  lean  Jack,  here  comes  bare-bont 
How  now,  my  sweet  creature  of  bombast  ?  How 
long  is  't  ago.  Jack,  since  thou  sawest  thine  own 
knee  ? 

Fal.  My  own  knee  ?  when  I  was  about  thj 
years,  Hal,  I  was  not  an  eagle's  talon  in  the  waist ; 
I  could  have  crept  into  any  alderman's  thumb-ring. 
A  plague  of  sighing  and  grief !  it  blows  a  man  up 
like  a  bladder.  There 's  villanous  news  abroad  : 
here  was  sir  John  Bracy  from  your  father ;  you 
must  to  the  court  in  the  morning.  That  same 
mad  fellow  of  the  north,  Percy  ;  and  he  of  Wales, 
that  gave  Amaimon  the  bastinado,  and  made 
Lucifer  cuckold,  and  swore  the  devil  his  true 
liegeman  upon  the  cross  of  a  Welsh  hook,'" — 
What,  a  plague,  call  you  him  ? 

Poins.  0,  Glendower. 

Fal.  Owen,  Owen ;  the  same ; — and  his  son-in- 
law,  Mortimer ;  and  old  Northumberland ;  and 
that  sprightly  Scot  of  Scots,  Douglas,  that  runs 
o'  horse-back  up  a  hill  perpendicular. 

P.  Hen.  He  that  rides  at  high  speed,  and  with 
his  pistol  kills  a  sparrow  flying. 

741 


ACT    11. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE   I^V. 


Fal.  You  have  hit  it. 

P.  Hen.  So  did  he  never  the  sparrow. 

Fal.  Well,  that  rascal  hath  good  mettle  in  him  ; 
lie  vi^ill  not  run. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  what  a  rascal  art  thou  then,  to 
praise  him  so  for  running  ? 

Fal.  O'  horseback,  ye  cuckoo !  but,  afoot,  he 
will  not  budge  a  foot. 

P.  Hen.  Yes,  Jack,  upon  instinct. 

Fal.  I  grant  ye,  upon  instinct.  Well,  he  is 
tnere  too,  and  one  Mordake,  and  a  thousand  blue- 
caps  more :  Worcester  is  stolen  away  to-night ; 
thy  father's  beard  is  turned  white  with  the  news ; 
you  may  buy  land  now  as  cheap  as  stinking 
mackerel. 

P.  Hen.  Why  then,  'tis  like,  if  there  come  a 
hot  June,  and  this  civil  buffeting  hold,  we  shall 
buy  maidenheads  as  they  buy  hob-nails,  by  the 
hundreds. 

Fal.  By  the  mass,  lad,  thou  sayest  true ;  it  is 
like,  we  shall  have  good  trading  that  way. — But, 
tell  me,  Hal,  art  thou  not  horribly  afeard  ?  thou 
being  heir  apparent,  could  the  world  pick  thee  out 
three  such  enemies  again,  as  that  fiend  Douglas, 
that  spirit  Percy,  and  that  devil  Glendower  ?  Art 
thou  not  horribly  afraid  ?  doth  not  thy  blood 
thrill  at  it  ? 

P.  Hen.  Not  a  whit,  i'  faith ;  I  lack  some  of 
thy  instinct. 

Fal.  Well,  thou  wilt  be  horribly  chid  to-mor- 
row, when  thou  comest  to  thy  father ;  if  thou  love 
me,  practise  an  answer. 

P.  Hen.  Do  thou  stand  for  my  father,  and  ex- 
amine me  upon  the  particulars  of  my  life. 

Fal.  Shall  I  ?  content: — This  chair  shall  be  my 
state,  this  dagger  my  sceptre,  and  this  cushion  my 
crown. 

P.  Hen.  Thy  state  is  taken  for  a  joint-stool, 
thy  golden  sceptre  for  a  leaden  dagger,  and  thy 
precious  rich  crown,  for  a  pitiful  bald  crown ! 

Fal.  Well,  an  the  fire  of  grace  be  not  quite  out 
of  thee,  now  shalt  thou  be  moved. — Give  me  a 
cup  of  sack,  to  make  mine  eyes  look  red,  that  it 
may  be  thought  I  have  wept ;  for  I  must  speak 
in  passion,  and  I  will  do  it  in  king  Cambyses' 
vein. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  here  is  my  leg.''* 

Fal.  And  here  is  my  speech  : — Stand  aside, 
nobility. 

Host.  This  is  excellent  sport,  i' faith. 

Fal.  Weep  not,  sweet  queen,  for  trickling  tears 
are  vain 


Host.  0,  the  father,  how  he  holds  his  counte- 
nance ! 

Fal.  For  God's  sake,  lords,  convey  my  tristful 
queen, 
For  tears  do  stop  the  flood-gates  of  her  eyes. 

Host.  0  rare !  he  doth  it  as  like  one  of  these 
harlotry  players,  as  I  ever  see. 

Fal.  Peace,  good  pint-pot ;  peace,  good  tickle- 
brain.- — Harry,  I  do  not  only  marvel  where  thou 
spendest  thy  time,  but  also  how  thou  art  accom- 
panied :  for  though  the  camomile,  the  more  it  is 
trodden  on,  the  faster  it  grows,  yet  youth,  the 
more  it  is  wasted,  the  sooner  it  wears.  That  thou 
art  my  son,  I  have  partly  thy  mother's  word, 
partly  my  own  opinion ;  but  chiefly,  a  villanous 
trick  of  thine  eye,  and  a  foolish  hanging  of  thy 
nether  lip,  that  doth  warrant  me.  If  then  thou  be 
son  to  me,  here  lies  the  point ; — Why,  being  son 
to  me,  art  thou  so  pointed  at  ?  Shall  the  blesse  1 
sun  of  heaven  prove  a  micher,  and  eat  black 
berries  ?*^  a  question  not  to  be  asked.  Shall  the 
son  of  England  prove  a  thief,  and  take  purses  ?  a 
question  to  be  asked.  There  is  a  thing,  Harry, 
which  thou  hast  often  heard  of,  and  it  is  known  to 
many  in  our  land  by  the  name  of  pitcli :  this 
pitch,  as  ancient  writers  do  report,  doth  defile  ;  so 
doth  the  company  thou  keepest ;  for,  Harry,  now 
I  do  not  speak  to  thee  in  drink,  but  in  tears  ;  not 
in  pleasure,  but  in  passion  ;  not  in  words  only, 
but  in  woes  also ; — And  yet  there  is  a  virtuous 
man,  whom  I  have  often  noted  in  thy  company, 
but  I  know  not  his  name. 

P.  Hen.  What  manner  of  man,  an  it  like  your 
majesty  ? 

Fal.  A  good  portly  man,  i'  feith,  and  a  corpu- 
lent ;  of  a  cheerful  look,  a  pleasing  eye,  and  a  most 
noble  carriage ;  and,  as  I  think,  his  age  some 
fifty,  or,  by'r-lady,  inclining  to  threescore  ;  and 
now  I  remember  me,  his  name  is  Falstaff :  if  that 
man  should  be  lewdly  given,  he  deceiveth  me  ;  for, 
Harry,  I  see  virtue  in  his  looks.  If  then  the  tree 
may  be  known  by  the  fruit,  as  the  fruit  by  the 
tree,  then,  peremptorily  I  speak  it,  there  is  virtue 
in  that  Falstaff:  him  keep  with,  the  rest  banish. 
And  tell  me  now,  thou  naughty  varlet,  tell  me, 
where  hast  thou  been  this  month  ? 

P.  Hen.  Dost  thou  speak  like  a  king?  Do 
thou  stand  for  me,  and  I  '11  play  my  father. 

Fal.  Depose  me?  if  thou  dost  it  half  so  gravely, 
so  majestically,  both  in  word  and  matter,  hang 
me  up  by  the  heels  for  a  rabbit-sucker,  or  a  poul- 
ter's  hare.** 


ACT    II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCEKB    IV. 


P.  Hen.  Well,  here  I  arr  set. 

Fal.  And  here  I  stand  : — judge,  my  masters. 

P.  Hen.  Now,  Harry  ;  whence  come  you  ? 

Fal.  My  noble  lord,  from  Eastcheap, 

P.  Hen.  The  complaints  I  hear  of  thee  are 
grievous. 

Fal.  'Sblood,  my  lord,  they  are  false : — nay, 
I  '11  tickle  ye  for  a  young  prince,  i'  faith. 

P.  Hen.  Swearest  thou,  ungracious  boy  ?  hence- 
forth ne'er  look  on  me.  Thou  art  violently  car- 
ried away  from  grace  :  there  is  a  devil  haunts  thee 
in  the  likeness  of  a  fat  old  man  :  a  tun  of  man  is 
thy  companion.  Why  dost  thou  converse  with 
that  trunk  of  humours,  that  bolting-hutch''*  of 
beastliness,  that  swoln  parcel  of  dropsies,  that 
huge  bombard  of  sack,  that  stuffed  cloak-bag  of 
guts,  that  roasted  Manningtree  ox^*  with  the 
pudding  in  his  belly,  that  reverend  vice,  that  grey 
iniquity,  that  father  ruffian,  that  vanity  in  years  ? 
Wherein  is  he  good,  but  to  taste  sack  and  drink 
it  ?  wherein  neat  and  cleanly,  but  to  carve  a  capon 
and  eat  it  ?  wherein  cunning,  but  in  craft  ?  where- 
in crafty,  but  in  villany  ?  wherein  villanous,  but 
in  all  things?  wherein  worthy,  but  in  nothing? 

Fal.  I  would,  your  grace  would  take  me  with 
you  :  Whom  means  your  grace  ? 

P.  Hen.  That  villanous  abominable  misleader 
of  youth,  Falstaff,  that  old  white-bearded  Satan. 

Fa.l.  My  lord,  the  man  I  know. 

P.  Hen.  I  know  thou  dost. 

Fal.  But  to  say,  I  know  more  harm  in  him 
than  in  myself,  were  to  say  more  than  I  know. 
That  he  is  old,  (the  more  the  pity,)  his  white 
hairs  do  witness  it ;  but  that  he  is  (saving  your 
reverence,)  a  whoremaster,  that  I  utterly  deny. 
If  sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault,  God  help  the  wicked  ! 
If  to  be  old  and  merry  be  a  sin,  then  many  an  old 
host  that  I  know,  is  damned  :  if  to  be  fat  be  to  be 
hated,  then  Pharaoh's  lean  kine  are  to  be  loved. 
No,  my  good  lord  ;  banish  Peto,  banish  Bardolph, 
banish  Poins  :  but  for  sweet  Jack  Falstaff,  kind 
Jack  Falstaff,  true  Jack  Falstaff,  valiant  Jack  Fal- 
staff, and  therefore  more  valiant,  being  as  he  is, 
old  Jack  Falstaff,  banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  com- 
pany; banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  company;  ban- 
ish plump  Jack,  and  banish  all  the  world. 

P.  Hen.  T  do,  I  will.  [J  knocking  heard. 

[Exeunt  Hostess,  Fran.,  and  Bard. 

Re-enter  Bardolph,  running. 

Bard.  O,  my  lord,  my  lord  ;  the  sheriff,  with  a 
most  monstrous  watch,  is  at  the  door. 


Fal.    Out,  you  rogue :  play  out  the  play :  J 
have  much  to  say  in  the  behalf  of  that  Falstaff. 

Pe-enter  Hostess,  hastily. 
Host.  O  Jesu,  my  lord,  my  lord  ' 


Fal.  Heigh,  heigh  !  the  devil  rides  upon  a 
fiddle-stick :  What  's  the  matter  ? 

Host.  The  sheriff  and  all  the  watch  are  at  the 
door :  they  are  come  to  search  the  house :  Shall 
I  let  them  in  ? 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal  ?  never  call  a  true 
piece  of  gold,  a  counterfeit ;  thou  art  essentially 
mad,  without  seeming  so. 

P.  Hen.  And  thou  a  natural  coward,  without 
instinct. 

Fal.  I  deny  your  major:  if  you  will  deny  the 
sheriff,  so  ;  if  not,  let  him  enter :  if  I  become  not 
a  cart  as  well  as  another  man,  a  plague  on  my 
bringing  up  !  I  hope,  I  shall  as  soon  be  strangled 
with  a  halter,  as  another. 

P.  Hen.  Go,  hide  thee  behind  the  arras ; — the 
rest  walk  up  above.  Now,  my  masters,  for  a  true 
face,  and  good  conscience. 

Fal.  Both  which  I  have  had  :  but  their  date  is 
out,  and  therefore  I  '11  hide  me. 

[Fxeunt  all  but  the  Prince  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  Call  in  the  sheriff. 

Enter  Sheriff  and  Carrier. 

Now,  master  sheriff ;  what 's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Sher.  First,  pardon  rae,  my  lord.     A  hue  and 
cry 
Hath  follow'd  certain  men  unto  this  house. 

P.  Hen.  What  men  ? 

Sher.  One  of  them  is  well  known,  my  gracious 
lord  ; 
A  gross  fat  man. 

Car.  As  fat  as  butter. 

P.  Hen.  The  man,  I  do  assure  you,  is  not  here 
For  I  myself  at  this  time  have  employ'd  him. 
And,  sheriff,  I  will  engage  my  word  to  thee, 
That  I  will,  by  to-morrow  dinner-time, 
Send  him  to  answer  thee,  or  any  man, 
For  any  thing  he  shall  be  charg'd  withal : 
And  so  let  me  entreat' you  leave  the  house. 

<8her.  I  will,  my  lord :  There  are  two  gentlemen 
Have  in  this  robbery  lost  three  hundred  marks. 

P.  Hen.  It  may  be  so :  if  he  have  robb'd  these 
men. 
He  shall  oe  answerable ;  and  so,  farewell. 

Sher.  Good  night,  my  noble  lord. 

P.  Hen.  I  think  it  is  good  morrow :  Is  it  not! 

743 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE   1. 


Sher,  Zodeed,  ray  lord,  I  think  it  be  two  o'clock. 
[JExeunt  Sher.  and  Car. 

P.  Hen.  This  oily  rascal  is  known  as  well  as 
Paul's.     Go,  call  him  forth. 

Poins.  Falstaft' ! — fast  asleep  behind  the  arras, 
and  snorting  like  a  horse. 

P.  Hen.  Hark,  how  hard  he  fetches  breath  : 
Search  his  pockets.  [Poins  searches^  What  hast 
thou  found  ? 

Poins.  Nothing  but  papers,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Let 's  see  what  they  be  :  read  them. 

Poins.  Item,  A  capon,  2s.  2d. 
Item,  Sauce,  Ad. 
Item,  Sack,  two  gallons,  5s.  8d. 


Item,  Anchovies,  and  sack  after  supper,  25.  6d. 
Item,  Bread,  a  halfpenny. 

P.  Hen.  0  monstrous  !  but  one  half-pennyworth 
of  bread  to  this  intolerable  deal  of  sack  ! — What 
there  is  else,  keep  close ;  we  '11  read  it  at  more 
advantage  :  there  let  him  sleep  till  day.  I  '11  to 
the  court  in  the  morning :  we  must  all  to  the  wars, 
and  thy  place  shall  be  honourable.  I  '11  procure 
this  fat  rogue  a  charge  of  foot ;  and,  I  know,  his 
death  will  be  a  march  of  twelve-score.  The  money 
shall  be  paid  back  again  with  advantage.  Be 
with  me  betimes  in  the  morning ;  and  so  good 
morrow,  Poins. 

Poins.  Good  morrow,  good  my  lord.  [^Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — Bangor.   A  Boom  in  the  Archdeacon's 
House. 

Enter  Hotspur,  Worcester,  Mortimer,  and 
Glendower. 

Mort.  These  promises  are  fair,  the  parties  sure. 
And  our  induction  full  of  prosperous  hope. 

Hot.  Lord  Mortimer, — and  cousin  Glendower, — 

Will  you  sit  down  ? 

And,  uncle  Worcester : — A  plague  upon  it ! 
I  have  forgot  the  map. 

Olend.  No,  here  it  is. 

Sit,  cousin  Percy ;  sit,  good  cousin  Hotspur  : 
For  by  that  name  as  oft  as  Lancaster 
Doth  speak  of  you,  his  cheek  looks  pale ;  and, 

with 
A  rising  sigh,  he  wisheth  you  in  heaven. 

Hot.  And  you  in  hell,  as  often  as  he  hears 
Owen  Glendower  spoken  of. 

Glend.  I  cannot  blame  him  :  at  my  nativity, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes. 
Of  burning  cressets  ;  and,  at  my  birth. 
The  frame  and  huge  foundation  of  the  earth 
Shak'd  like  a  coward.  , 

Hot.  Why,  so  it  would  have  done 

At  the  same  season,  if  your  mother's  cat  had 
But  kitten'd,  though  yourself  had  ne'er  been  born. 

Glend.  I  say,  the  earth  did  shake  when  I  was 
born. 

Hot.  And  I  say,  the  earth  was  no   of  my  mind, 

t44 


If  you  suppose,  as  fearing  you  it  shook. 

Glend.  The  heavens  were  all  on  fire,  the  earth 

did  tremble. 
Hot.  0,  then  the  earth  shook  to  see  the  heavens 

on  fire. 
And  not  in  fear  of  your  nativity. 
Diseased  nature  oftentimes  breaks  forth 
In  strange  eruptions:  oft  the  teeming  earth 
Is  with  a  kind  of  colic  pinch 'd  and  vex'd 
By  the  imprisoning  of  unruly  wind 
Within  her  womb ;  which  for  enlargement  striving, 
Shakes  the  old  beldame  earth,  and  topples  down 
Steeples,  and  moss-grown  towers.     At  your  birth. 
Our  grandam  earth,  having  this  distemperature. 
In  passion  shook. 

Glend.  Cousin,  of  many  men 

I  do  not  bear  these  crossings.     Give  me  leave 
To  tell  you  once  again, — that  at  my  birth, 
The  front  of  heaven  was  full  of  fiery  shapes; 
The  goats  ran  from  the  mountains,  and  the  herds 
Were  strangely  clamorous  to  the  frighted  fields. 
These  signs  have  mark'd  me  extraordinary; 
And  all  the  courses  of  my  life  do  show, 
I  am  not  in  the  roll  of  common  men. 
Where  is  he  living, — clipp'd  in  with  the  sea 
That  chides   the   banks   of   England,   Scotland, 

Wales, 

Which  calls  me  pupil,  or  hath  read  to  me  ? 
And  bring  him  out,  that  is  but  woi  lan's  son. 
Can  trace  me  in  the  tedious  ways  of  art, 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENS   I. 


And  hold  me  pace  in  deep  experiments. 

Hot.  I  think,  thcia   is  no  man  speaks  better 

Welsh : 

I  will  to  dinner. 

Mort.  Peace,  cousin  Percy ;  you  will  make  him 

mad. 
Glend.  I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep. 
Hot.  Why,  so  can  I ;  or  so  can  any  man  : 
But  will  they  come,  when  you  do  call  for  them  ? 
Glend.  AVhy,  I  can  teach  you,  cousin,  to  com- 
mand 
The  devil. 

Hot.  And  I  can  teach  thee,  coz,  to  shame  the 
devil, 
By    telling   truth :    Tell   truth,    and   shame   the 

devil. — 
If  thou  have  power  to  raise  him,  bring  him  hither, 
And  I  '11  be  sworn,  I  have  power  to  shame  him 

hence. 
O,  while  you  live,  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  devil. 

Mort.  Come,  come, 
No  more  of  this  unprofitable  chat. 

Glend.  Three  times  hath  Henry  Bolingbroke 
made  head 
Against  my  power  :  thrice  from  the  banks  of  Wye, 
And  sandy-bottom'd  Severn,  have  I  sent  him. 
Bootless  home,  and  weather-beaten  back. 

Hot.  Home  without  boots,  and  in  foul  weather 
too! 
How  'scapes  he  agues,  in  the  devil's  name  ? 

Glend.  Come,  here  's  the  map  :  Shall  we  divide 
our  right, 
According  to  our  three-fold  order  ta'en  ? 
Mort.  The  archdeacon  hath  divided  it 
Into  three  limits,  very  equally  : 
England,  from  Trent  and  Severn  hitherto. 
By  south  and  east,  is  to  my  part  assign'd : 
All  westward,  Wales  beyond  the  Severn  shore. 
And  all  the  fertile  land  within  that  bound. 
To  Owen  Glendower  : — and,  dear  coz,  to  you 
The  remnant  northward,  lying  off  from  Trent. 
And  our  indentures  tripartite  are  drawn  : 
Which  being  sealed  interchangeably, 
(A  business  that  this  night  may  execute,) 
To-morrow,  cousin  Percy,  you,  and  I, 
And  my  good  lord  of  Worcester,  will  set  forth, 
To  meet  your  father,  and  the  Scottish  power. 
As  is  appointed  us,  at  Shrewsbury. 
My  fether  Glendower  is  not  ready  yet. 
Nor  shall  we  need  his  help  these  fourteen  days  ; — 
Within  that  space,  [To  Glend.]  you  may  have 
drawn  together 
w 


Your  tenants,  friends,  and  neighbouring  gentle- 
men. 

Glend.  A  shorter  time  shall  send  me  to  you, 
lords. 
And  in  my  conduct  shall  your  ladies  come. 
From  whom   you  now  must  steal,  and  take  no 

leave  ; 
For  there  will  be  a  world  of  water  shed. 
Upon  the  parting  of  your  wives  and  you. 

Hot.  Methinks,  my  moiety,  north  from  Burton 
here,"^ 
In  quantity  equals  not  one  of  yours  : 
See,  how  this  river  comes  me  cranking  in. 
And  cuts  me,  from  the  best  of  all  my  land, 
A  huge  half  moon,  a  monstrous  cantle  out. 
I  'II  have  the  current  in  this  place  damm'd  up; 
And  here  the  smug  and  silver  Trent  shall  run. 
In  a  new  channel,  fair  and  evenly : 
It  shall  not  wind  with  such  a  deep  indent, 
To  rob  me  of  so  rich  a  bottom  here. 

Glend.  Not  wind  ?  it  shall,  it  must ;  you  see, 
it  doth. 

Mort.  Yea, 
But  mark,  how  he  bears  his  course,  and  runs  me  up 
With  like  advantage  on  the  other  side ; 
Gelding  the  opposed  continent  as  much, 
As  on  the  other  side  it  takes  from  you. 

Wor.  Yea,  but  a  little  charge  will  trench  him 
here. 
And  on  this  north  side  win  this  cape  of  land  ; 
And  then  he  runs  all  straight  and  evenly. 

Hot.  I  '11  have  it  so;  a  httle  charge  will  do  it. 

Glend.  I  will  not  have  it  alter'd. 

Hot.  Will  not  you  ? 

Glend.  No,  nor  you  shall  not. 

Hot.  Who  shall  say  me  nay  ? 

Glend.  Why,  that  will  I. 

Hot.  Let  me  not  understand  you  then. 

Speak  it  in  Welsh. 

Glend.  I  can  speak  English,  lord,  as  well  ag 
you; 
For  I  was  train'd  up  in  the  English  court : 
Where,  being  but  young,  I  framed  to  the  harp 
Many  an  English  ditty,  lovely  well. 
And  gave  the  tongue  a  helpful  ornament ; 
A  virtue  that  was  never  seen  in  you. 

Hot.  Marry,  and  I'm  glad  of  it  with  all  my  heart 
I  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry — mew, 
Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers : 
I  had  rathei'  hear  a  brazen  canstick  turn'd,"" 
Or  a  dry  wheel  grate  on  an  axle-tree ; 
And  that  would  set  my  teeth  nothing  on  edge, 

745 


ACT   III. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


fiCENB   J. 


Nothing  so  much  as  mincing  poetry  ; 
'T  is  like  the  forc'd  gait  of  a  shuffling  nag. 
Olend.  Come,  you  shall  have  Trent  turn'd. 
Hot.  I  do  not  care :  I  '11  give  thrice  so  much 
land 
To  any  well-desorving  friend  ; 
]3ut,  in  the  way  of  bargain,  mark  ye  me, 
I  '11  cavil  on  the  ninth  part  of  a  hair. 
Are  the  indentures  drawn  ?  shall  we  be  gone  ? 
Glend.  The  moon  shines  fair,  you  may  away 
by  night : 
I  '11  haste  the  writer,''^  and,  withal, 
Break  with  your  wives  of  your  departure  hence: 
I  am  afraid,  my  daughter  will  run  mad, 
So  much  she  doteth  on  her  Mortimer.  [Exit. 

Mort.  Fye,  cousin  Percy !  how  you  cross  my 

father ! 
Hot.  I  cannot  choose  :  sometimes  he  angers  me. 
With  telling  me  of  the  moldwarp  and  tlie  ant,*° 
Of  the  dreamer  Merlin  and  his  prophecies  ; 
And  of  a  dragon  and  a  finless  fish, 
A  clip-wing'd  griffin,  and  a  moulten  raven, 
A  couching  lion,  and  a  ramping  cat. 
And  such  a  deal  of  skimble-skamble  stuff 
As  puts  me  from  my  faith.     I  tell  you  what, — 
He  held  me,  but  last  night,  at  least  nine  houi-s. 
In  reckoning  up  the  several  devils'  names. 
That   were   his   lackeys  :    I  cried,   humph, — and 

well, — go  to, — 
But  mark'd  him  not  a  word.     0,  he  's  as  tedious 
As  is  a  tired  horse,  a  railing  wife; 
Worse  than  a  smoky  house: — I  had  rather  live 
With  cheese  and  garlic,  in  a  windmill,  far, 
Than  feed  on  cates,  and  have  him  talk  to  me, 
In  any  summer  house  in  Christendom. 

Movt.  In  foith,  he  is  a  worthy  gentleman ; 
Exceedingly  well  read,  and  profited 
In  strange  concealments;  valiant  as  a  lion. 
And  wond'rous  aftable ;  and  as  bountiful 
As  mines  of  India.     Shall  I  tell  you,  cousin  ? 
He  holds  your  temper  in  a  high  respect, 
And  curbs  himself  even  of  his  natural  scope. 
When  you  do  cross  his  humour ;  'faith,  he  does  : 
I  warrant  you,  that  man  is  not  alive. 
Might  so  have  tempted  him  as  you  have  done. 
Without  the  taste  of  danger  and  reproof; 
But  do  not  use  it  oft,  let  ir  }  entreat  you. 

Wor,  In   faith,   my  lord,  you   are  too   wilful- 
blame  ;" 
And  since  your  coming  hither  have  done  enough 
To  put  him  quite  beside  his  patience. 
ou  must  needs  learn,  lord,  to  amend  this  fault : 


Though  sometimes   it  shows  greatness,  courage, 

blood, 
(And  that 's  the  dearest  grace  it  renders  you,) 
Yet  oftentimes  it  doth  present  harsh  rage. 
Defect  of  manners,  want  of  government. 
Pride,  haughtiness,  opinion,  and  disdain  : 
The  least  of  which,  haunting  a  nobleman, 
Loseth  men's  hearts ;  and  leaves  behind  a  stain 
Upon  the  beauty  of  all  parts  besides, 
Beguiling  them  of  commendation. 

Hot.  Well,  I  am  school'd;  good  manners  be 

your  speed ! 
Here  come  our  wives,  and  let  us  take  our  leave 

Re-enter  Glendowkk,  loith  the  Ladies. 

Mort.  This  is  the  deadly  spite  that  angers  me, — 
My  wife  can  speak  no  English,  I  no  Welsh. 

Glend,  My  daughter  weeps ;  she  will  not  part 
with  you, 
She  '11  be  a  soldier  too,  she  '11  to  the  wars. 

Mort.  Good  father,  tell  her, — that  she,  and  my 
aunt  Percy, 
Shall  follow  in  your  conduct  speedily. 

[Glend.  speaks  to  his  daughter  in  Welsh,  ana 
she  answers  him  in  the  same. 
Glend.  She  's  desperate  here ;   a  peevish  self- 
will'd  harlotry, 
One  no  persuasion  can  do  good  upon. 

[Lady  M.  speaks  to  Mort.  in  Welsh. 

Mort.  I  understand  thy  looks :  that  pretty  Welsh 

Which  thou   pourest  down   from    these    welling 

heavens, 
I  am  too  perfect  in  ;  and,  but  for  shame. 
In  such  a  parley  would  I  answer  thee. 

[Lady  M.  speaks. 
I  understand  thy  kisses,  and  thou  mine. 
And  that 's  a  feeling  disputation  : 
But  I  will  never  be  a  truant,  love, 
Till  I  have  learn'd  thy  language  ;  for  thy  tongue 
Makes  Welsh  as  sweet  as  ditties  highly  penn'd. 
Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer's  bower. 
With  ravishing  division,  to  her  lute. 

Glend.  Nay,  if  you  melt,  then  will  she  run  mad. 
[Lady  M.  speaks  again, 
Mort.  0,  I  am  ignorance  itself  in  this. 
Glmd.  She  bids  you 
Upon  the  wanton  rushes  lay  you  down,'^ 
And  rest  your  gentle  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  she  will  sing  the  song  that  pleaseth  you, 
And  on  your  eye-lids  crown  the  god  of  sleep. 
Charming  your  blood  with  pleasing  heaviness; 
Making  such  difference  'twixt  wake  and  sleep, 


ACT    III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOUETH. 


SCENB   n. 


As  is  the  difference  betwixt  day  and  night, 
The  hour  before  the  heavenly-harness'd  team 
Begins  his  golden  progress  in  the  east. 

Mort.  With  all  my  heart  I  '11  sit,  and  hear  her 
sing:^ 
By  that  time  will  our  book,  I  think,  be  drawn. 

Glend.  Do  so; 
And  those  musicians  that  shall  play  to  you, 
Hang  in  the  air  a  thousand  leagues  from  hence  ; 
Yet  straigiit  they  shall  be  here  :  sit,  and  attend. 

Hot.  Come,  Kate,  thou  art  perfect  in  lying 
down :  Come,  quick,  quick ;  that  I  may  lay  my 
head  in  thy  lap. 

Lady  P.  Go,  ye  giddy  goose. 

Glendower  speaks  some  Welsh  words^  and  then 
the  Music  plays. 

Hoi.  Now   I  perceive,   the   devil    understands 
Welsh  ; 
And  't  is  no  marvel,  he  's  so  humorous. 
By  'r-lady,  he  's  a  good  musician. 

Lady  P.  Then  should  you  be  nothing  but  mu- 
sical ;  for  you  are  altogether  governed  by  humours. 
Lie  still,  ye  thief,  and  hear  the  lady  sing  in  Welsh. 

Hot.  I  had  rather  hear  "Lady,"  my  brach, 
howl  in  Irish. 

Lady  P.  Would'st  thou  have  thy  head  broken  ? 

Hot,  No. 

Lady  P.  Then  be  still. 

Hot.  Neither;  'tis  a  woman's  fault. 

Lady  P.  Now  God  help  thee  1 

Hot.  To  the  Welsh  lady's  bed. 

Lady  P.  What 's  that  ? 

Hot.  Peace  !  she  sings. 

A  Welsh  Song  suny  by  Lady  M. 

Hot.  Come,  Kate,  I  '11  have  your  song  too. 

Lady  P.  Not  mine,  in  good  sooth. 

Hot.  Not  yours,  in  good  sooth  !     'Heart,  you 
4v/ear  like  a  comfit-maker's  wife !     Not  you,  in 
good  sooth  ;  and,  As  true  as  I  live ;  and.  As  God 
shall  mend  me ;  and,  As  sure  as  day : 
And  giv'st  such  sarcenet  surety  for  thy  oaths, 
As  if  thou  never  walk'dst  further  than  Finsbury. 
Swear  me,  Kate,  like  a  lady,  as  thou  art, 
A.  good  mouth-filling  oath  ;  and  leave  in  sooth, 
And  such  protest  of  pepper-giiigerbread. 
To  velvet-guards,  and  Sunday-citizens. 
Come,  sing. 

Lady  P.  I  will  not  sing. 

Hot.  'T  is  the  next  way  to  turn  tailor,  or  be 
redbreast  teacher.*^     An  the  indentures  be  drawn. 


r  11  away  within  these  two  hours ;  and  so  come 
in  when  ye  will.  [LJxit. 

Glend.  Come,  come,  lord  Mortimer;  you  are 
as  slow. 
As  hot  lord  Percy  is  on  fire  to  go. 
By  this  our  book  's  drawn ;  we  '11  but  seal,  and  then 
To  horse  immediately. 

Mort.  With  all  my  heart.     [Exeunt 

SCENE  II.     London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
Lords. 

K.  Hen.  Lords,  give  us  leave ;  the  Prince  of 
Wales  and  I, 
Must  have  some  conference  :  But  be  near  at  hand, 
For  we  shall  presently  have  need  of  you. — 

[Exeunt  Lords. 
I  know  not  whether  God  will  have  it  so. 
For  some  displeasing  service  I  have  done. 
That  in  his  secret  doom,  out  of  my  blood 
He  '11  breed  revengement  and  a  scourge  for  me ; 
But  thou  dost,  in  thy  passages  of  life, 
Make  me  believe, — that  thou  art  only  mark'd 
For  the  hot  vengeance  and  the  rod  of  heaven, 
To  punish  my  mis-treadings.     Tell  me  els«. 
Could  such  inordinate,  and  low  desires, 
Such  poor,  such  bare,  such  lewd,  such  mean  at- 
tempts. 
Such  barren  pleasures,  rude  society. 
As  thou  art  match'd  withal,  and  grafted  to, 
Accompany  the  greatness  of  thy  blood. 
And  hold  their  level  with  thy  princely  heart? 

P.  Hen.  So  please  your  majesty.  I  would,  I  could 
Quit  all  offiences  with  as  clear  excuse. 
As  well  as,  I  am  doubtless,  I  can  purge 
Myself  of  many  I  am  charg'd  withal : 
Yet  such  extenuation  let  me  beg, 
As,  in  reproof  of  many  tales  devis'd, — 
Which  oft  the  ear  of  greatness  needs  must  hear, — 
By  smiling  pick-thanks  and  base  newsmongers, 
I  may,  for  some  things  true,  wherein  my  youth 
Hath  faulty  wandei"'d  and  irregular, 
Find  pardon  on  my  true  submission. 

K.  Hen.  God  pardon  thee ! — yet  let  me  wondei 
Harry, 
At  thy  affections,  which  do  hold  a  wing 
Quite  from  the  flight  of  all  thy  ancestors. 
Thy  place  in  council  thou  hast  rudely  lost, 
Which  by  thy  younger  brother  is  supplied ; 
And  art  almost  an  alien  to  the  hearts 
Of  all  the  court  and  princes  of  my  blood  .' 

747 


FIRST  PART  OF 


BCEKB    n. 


The  hope  and  expectation  of  thy  time 

Is  ruin'd  ;  and  the  soul  of  every  man 

Propiietically  does  fore-think  thy  fall. 

Had  I  so  lavish  of  my  presence  been, 

So  common-hackney'd  in  the  eyes  of  men, 

So  stale  and  cheap  to  vulgar  company ; 

Opinion,  that  did  help  me  to  the  crown, 

Had  still  kept  loyal  to  possession  ; 

And  left  me  in  reputeless  banishment, 

A  fellow  of  no  mark,  nor  likelihood. 

By  being  seldom  seen,  I  could  not  stir, 

But,  like  a  comet,  I  was  wonder'd  at : 

That  men  would  tell  their  children,  "  This  is  he ;" 

Others  would  say, — "  Where  ?  which  is  Boling- 

broke  ?" 
And  then  I  stole  all  courtesy  from  heaven, 
And  dress'd  myself  in  such  humility. 
That  I  did  pluck  allegiance  from  men's  hearts, 
Loud  shouts  and  salutations  from  their  mouths, 
Even  in  the  presence  of  the  crowned  king. 
Thus  did  I  keep  my  person  fresh,  and  new ; 
My  presence,  like  a  robe  pontifical. 
Ne'er  seen,  but  woiider'd  at :  and  so  my  state, 
Seldom,  but  sumptuous,  showed  like  a  feast ; 
And  won,  by  rareness,  such  solemnity. 
The  skipping  king,  he  ambled  up  and  down 
With  shallow  jesters,  and  rash  bavin  wits,*' 
Soon  kindled,  and  soon  burn'd :  carded  his  state ;" 
Mingled  his  royalty  with  capering  fools  ; 
Had  his  great  name  profaned  with  their  scoins  ; 
And  gave  his  countenance,  against  his  name, 
To  laugh  at  gibing  boys,  and  stand  the  push 
Of  every  beardless  vain  comparative  :'^ 
Grew  a  companion  to  the  common  streets, 
EnfeotF'd  himself  to  popularity  : 
That  being  daily  swallow'd  by  men's  eyes. 
They  surfeited  with  honey  ;  and  began 
To  loathe  the  taste  of  sweetness,  whereof  a  little 
More  than  a  little  is  by  much  too  much. 
So,  when  he  had  occasion  to  be  seen, 
He  was  but  as  the  cuckoo  is  in  June, 
Heard,  not  regarded ;  seen,  but  with  such  eyes, 
As,  sick  and  blunted  with  community, 
Afford  no  extraordinary  gaze. 
Such  as  is  bent  on  sun-like  majesty 
When  it  shines  seldom  in  admiring  eyes  : 
But  rather  drows'd,  and  hung  their  eye-lids  down. 
Slept  in  his  face,  and  render'd  such  aspect 
As  cloudy  men  use  to  their  adversaries ; 
Being  with  his  presence  glutted,  gorg'd,  and  full. 
And  in  that  very  line,  Harry,  stand 'st  thou  : 
For  thou  hast  lost  thy  princely  privilege, 

748 


With  -ile  participation  ;  not  an  eye 

But  is  a- weary  of  thy  common  sight, 

Save  mine,  which  hath  desir'd  to  see  thee  more, 

Which  now  doth  that  I  would  not  have  it  do, 

Make  blind  itself  with  foolish  tenderness. 

P.  Hen.  I  shall  hereafter,  my  thrice-gracious 
lord, 
Be  more  myself. 

K.  Hen.  For  all  the  worla, 

As  thou  art  to  this  hour,  was  Richard  then 
When  I  from  France  set  foot  at  Ravenspurg ; 
And  even  as  I  was  then,  is  Percy  now. 
Now  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  soul  to  boot. 
He  hath  more  worthy  interest  to  the  state. 
Than  thou,  the  shadov/  of  succession  : 
For,  of  no  right,  nor  colour  like  to  right, 
He  doth  fill  fields  with  harness  in  the  realm ; 
Turns  head  against  the  lion's  armed  jaws  ; 
And,  being  no  more  in  debt  to  years  than  thou, 
Leads  ancient  lords  and  reverend  bishoj)s  on. 
To  bloody  battles,  and  to  bruising  arms. 
What  never-dying  honour  hath  he  got 
Against  renowned  Douglas  ;  whose  high  deeds. 
Whose  hot  incursions,  and  great  name  in  arms, 
Holds  from  all  soldiers  chief  majority, 
And  military  title  capital. 
Through    all    the    kingdoms    that    acknowledge 

Christ  ? 
Thrice    hath    this    Hotspur   Mars    in    swarthing 

clothes, 
This  infant  warrior,  in  his  enterprises 
Discomfited  gi-eat  Douglas  :  ta'en  him  once. 
Enlarged  him,  and  made  a  friend  of  him, 
To  fill  the  mouth  of  deep  defiance  up, 
And  shake  the  peace  and  safety  of  our  throne. 
And  what  say  you  to  this  ?     Percy,  Northumber- 
land, 
The  archbishop's  grace  of  York,  Douglas,  Morti- 
mer, 
Capitulate  against  us,  and  are  up. 
But  wherefore  do  I  tell  these  news  to  thee  ? 
Why,  Harry,  do  I  tell  thee  of  my  foes, 
Which  art  my  near'st  and  dearest  enemy  ? 
Thou  that  art  like  enough, — through  vassal  fear. 

Base  inclination,  and  the  stait  of  spleen, 

To  fight  against  me  under  Percy's  pay, 

To  dog  his  heels,  and  court'ry  at  his  frowns. 

To  show  how  much  degenerate  thou  an. 

P.  Hen.  Do  not  think  so,  you  shall  not  find 
it  so  ; 
And  God  forgive  them,  that  have  so  much  sway'd 
Your  majesty's  good  thoughts  away  from  me  1 


I — 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCKKE  m. 


I  will  redeem  all  this  on  Percy's  head, 

And,  in  the  closing  of  some  glorious  day, 

Be  bold  to  tell  you,  that  I  am  your  son  ; 

When  I  will  wear  a  garment  all  of  blood, 

And  stain  my  favours  in  a  bloody  mask. 

Which,  wafeh'd  away,  shall  scour  my  shame  with  it. 

And  that  shall  be  the  day,  whene'er  it  lights. 

That  this  same  child  of  honour  and  renown. 

This  gallant  Hotspur,  this  all-praised  knight. 

And  your  unthought-of  Harry,  chance  to  meet : 

For  every  honour  sitting  on  his  helm, 

'Would  they  were  multitudes  ;  and  on  my  head 

My  shames  redoubled  !  for  the  time  will  come, 

That  I  shall  make  this  northern  youth  exchange 

His  glorious  deeds  for  my  indignities. 

Percy  is  but  my  factor,  good  my  lord, 

To  engross  up  glorious  deeds  on  my  behalf; 

And  I  will  call  him  to  so  strict  account. 

That  he  shall  render  every  glory  up. 

Yea,  even  the  slightest  worship  of  his  time. 

Or  I  will  tear  the  reckoning  from  his  heart. 

This,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  promise  here  : 

The  which  if  he  be  pleas'd  I  shall  perform, 

I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  may  salve 

The  long-grown  wounds  of  my  intemperance  : 

If  not,  the  end  of  life  cancels  all  bands  : 

And  I  will  die  a  hundred  thousand  deaths. 

Ere  break  the  smallest  parcel  of  this  vow. 

K.  Hen.  A  hundred    thousand    rebels    die   in 
this : — 
Thou    shalt   have   charge,    and    sovereign    trust, 
hci-ein. 

Enter  Blunt. 

How  now,  good  Blunt?  thy  looks  are  full  of  speed. 

Blunt.  So  hath   the  business  that  I  come  to 
speak  of. 
Lord  Mortimer  of  Scotland  hath  sent  word," 
That  Douglas,  and  the  English  rebels,  met. 
The  eleventh  of  this  month,  at  Shrewsbury  : 
A  mighty  and  a  fearful  head  they  are. 
If  promises  be  kept  on  every  hand. 
As  ever  offer'd  foul  play  in  a  state. 

K.  Hen.  The  earl  of  Westmoreland  set  forth 
to-day ; 
With  him  my  son,  lord  John  of  Lancaster  ; 
For  this  advertisement  is  five  days  old  : — 
On  Wednesday  next,  Harry,  you  shall  set 
Forward  ;  on  Thursday,  we  ourselves  will  march  : 
Our  meeting  is  Bridgnorth  :  and,  Hariy,  you 
Shall    march    through    Glostershire ;    by    which 
account. 


Our  business  valued,  some  twelve  days  henoe 
Our  general  forces  at  Bridgnorth  shall  meet. 
Our  hands  are  full  of  business  :  let 's  away ; 
Advantage  feeds  him  fat,  while  men  delay. 

^^Exeunt. 

SCENE  in. — Eastcheap.     A  Room  in  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  am  I  not  fallen  away  vilely 
since  this  last  action  ?  do  I  not  bate  ?  do  I  not 
dwindle  ?  Why,  my  skin  hangs  about  me  like 
an  old  lady's  loose  gown  ;  I  am  wither'd  like  an 
old  apple-John.  WeH,  I  '11  repent,  and  that  sud- 
denly, while  I  am  in  some  liking  ;  I  shall  be  out 
of  heart  shortly,  and  then  I  shall  have  no  strength 
to  repent.  An  I  have  not  forgotten  what  the  in- 
side of  a  church  is  made  of,  I  am  a  pepper-corn, 
a  brewer's  horse  :  the  inside  of  a  church  !  Com- 
pany, villanous  company,  hath  been  the  spoil 
of  me. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  you  are  so  fretful,  you  cannot 
live  long. 

Fal.  Why,  there  is  it : — come,  sing  me  a  bawdy 
song ;  make  me  merry.  I  was  as  virtuously  given, 
as  a  gentleman  need  to  bo  ;  virtuous  enough  : 
swore  little  ;  diced,  not  above  seven  times  a  week ; 
went  to  a  bawdy-house,  not  above  once  in  a  quar- 
ter— of  an  hour:  paid  money  that  I  borrowed, 
three  or  four  times ;  lived  well,  and  in  good  com- 
pass :  and  now  I  live  out  of  all  order,  out  of  all 
compass. 

Bard.  Why,  you  are  so  fixt,  sir  John,  that  you 
must  needs  be  out  of  all  compass  ;  out  of  all  rea- 
sonable compass,  sir  John. 

Fal.  Do  thou  amend  thy  face,  and  I  '11  amend 
my  life :  Thou  art  our  admiral,  thou  bearest  the 
lantern  in  the  poop, — but 't  is  in  the  nose  of  thee ; 
thou  art  the  knight  of  the  burning  lamp. 

Bard.  AVhy,  sir  John,  my  face  does  you  no 
harm. 

Fal.  No,  I  '11  be  sworn  ;  I  make  as  good  use  of 
it  as  many  a  man  doth  of  a  death's  head,  or  a 
memento  mori :  I  never  see  thy  face,  but  I  think 
upon  hell-fire,  and  Dives  that  lived  in  purple ;  for 
there  he  is  in  his  robes,  burning,  burning.  If 
thou  wert  any  way  given  to  virtue,  I  would  swear 
by  thy  face ;  my  oath  should  be,  By  this  fire  :  but 
thou  art  altogether  given  over  ;  and  wert  indeed, 
but  for  the  light  in  thj  face,  the  son  of  utter  dark- 
i  ness.    When  thou  ran'st  nr  Gads-hill  in  the  night 

749 


Acr  III. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCEXE  in. 


to  catch  my  horse,  if  I  did  not  think  thou  hadst 
been  an  ignis  fatuus,  or  a  ball  of  wildfire,  there  's 
no  purchase  in  money.  O,  thou  art  a  perpetual 
triumph,  an  everlasting  bonfire-light !  Thou  hast 
saved  me  a  thousand  marks  in  links  and  torches, 
walking  with  thee  in  the  night  betwixt  tavern  and 
tavern :  but  the  sack  that  thou  hast  drunk  me, 
would  have  bought  me  lights  as  good  cheap,  at 
the  dearest  chandler's  in  Europe.  I  have  maintain- 
ed that  salamander  of  yours  with  fire,  any  time  this 
two-and-thirty  years :  Heaven  reward  me  for  it ! 

Bard.  'Sblood,  I  would  my  face  were  in  your 
belly! 

Fal.  God-a-mercy !  so  should  I  be  sure  to  be 
heart-burned. 

Enter  Hostess. 

How  now,  dame  Partlet,  the  hen  ?*'  have  you  in- 
quired yet,  who  picked  my  pocket  ? 

Host.  Why,  sir  John !  what  do  you  think,  sir 
.Tohn  ?  Do  you  think  I  keep  thieves  in  my  house? 
I  have  searched,  I  have  inquired,  so  has  my  hus- 
band, man  by  man,  boy  by  boy,  servant  by  servant : 
the  tithe  of  a  hair  was  never  lost  in  my  house 
before. 

Fal.  You  lie,  hostess ;  Bardolph  was  shaved,  and 
lest  many  a  hair:  and  I'll  be  sworn,  my  pocket 
was  picked  :  Go  to,  you  are  a  woman,  go. 

Host.  Who  I  ?  I  defy  thee :  I  was  never  called 
so  in  mine  own  house  before. 

Ful.  Go  to,  I  know  you  well  enough. 

Host.  No,  sir  John ;  you  do  not  know  me,  sir 
John  :  I  know  you,  sir  John  :  you  owe  me  money, 
sir  John,  and  now  you  pick  a  quarrel  to  beguile 
me  of  it :  I  bought  you  a  dozen  of  shirts  to  your 
back. 

Fal.  Dowlas,  filthy  dowlas  :  I  have  given  them 
away  to  bakers'  wives,  and  they  have  made  bolters 
of  them. 

Host.  Now,  as  1  am  a  true  woman,  holland  of 
eight  shillings  an  ell.  You  owe  money  here  besides, 
sir  John,  for  your  diet,  and  by-driukings,  and 
money  lent  you,  four-and-twenty  pound. 

Fal.  He  had  his  part  of  it ;  let  him  pay. 

Host.  He?  alas,  he  is  poor ;  he  hath  nothing. 

Fal.  How !  poor  ?  look  upon  his  face :  What 
call  you  rich  ?  let  them  coin  his  nose,  let  them 
coin  his  cheeks  ;  I  '11  not  pay  a  denier.  What,  will 
you  make  a  younkei  of  me  ?  shall  I  not  take  mine 
ease  in  mine  inn,  but  I  shall  have  my  pocket 
picked  ?  I  have  lost  a  seal-ring  of  my  grandfather's, 
worth  forty  mark. 
<Z60 


Host.   O   Jesu !   I  have  heard   the  prince  tell      ' 
him,   I  know   not  how  oft,   that  that  ring  was 
copper. 

Fal.  How  !  the  prince  is  a  Jack,  a  sneak-cup ; 
and,  if  he  were  here,  I  would  cudgel  him  like  a 
dog,  if  he  would  say  so. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins,  marching.  Fal- 
STAFP  meets  the  Prince,  playing  on  his  trunch- 
eon, like  a  fife. 

Fal.  How  now,  lad  ?  is  the  wind  in  that  door, 
i'  faith  ?  must  we  all  march  ? 

Bard.  Yea,  two  and  two,  Newgate-fashion, 

Host.  My  lord,  I  pray  you,  hear  me, 

P.  Hen.  What  .sayest  thou,  mistress  Quickly  ? 
How  does  thy  husband  ?  I  love  him  well,  he  is  an 
honest  man. 

Host.  Good  my  lord,  hear  me. 

Fal.  Pr'ythee,  let  her  alone,  and  list  to  me. 

P.  Hen.  What  sayest  thou.  Jack  ? 

Fal.  The  other  night  I  fell  asleep  here  behind 
the  arras,  and  had  my  pocket  picked  :  this  house 
is  turned  bawdy-house,  they  pick  pockets. 

P.  Hen.  What  didst  thou  lose,  Jack  ? 

Fal.  Wilt  thou  believe  me,  Hal  ?  three  or  four 
bonds  of  forty  pound  a-piece,  and  a  seal-ring  o{ 
my  grandfather's. 

P.  Hen.  A  trifle,  some  eight-penny  matter. 

Host.  So  I  told  him,  my  lord  ;  and  I  said,  1 
heard  your  grace  say  so  :  And,  my  lord,  he  speaks 
most  vilely  of  you,  Uke  a  foul-mouthed  man  as  he 
is ;  and  said,  he  would  cudgel  you. 

P.  Hen.  What !  he  did  not  ? 

Host.  There 's  neither  faith,  truth,  nor  woman- 
hood in  me  else. 

Fal.  There 's  no  more  faith  in  thee  than  in  a 
stewed  prune ;  nor  no  more  truth  in  thee,  than  in 
a  drawn  fox  •,'^  and  for  womanhood,  maid  Marian 
may  be  the  deputy's  wife  of  the  ward  to  thee.*" 
Go,  you  thing,  go. 

Host.  Say,  what  thing  ?  what  thing  ? 

Fal.  What  thing  ?  why,  a  thing  to  thank  God 
on. 

Host.  I  am  no  thing  to  thank  God  on,  I  would 
thou  should'st  know  it :  I  am  an  honest  man's 
wife :  and,  setting  thy  knighthood  aside,  thou  art 
a  knave  to  call  me  so. 

Fal.  Setting  thy  womanhood  aside,  tliou  art  a 
beast  to  say  otherwise. 

Host.  Say,  what  beast,  thou  knave  thou  ? 

Fal.  What  beast  ?  why  an  otter. 

P.  Hen.  An  otter,  sir  John  !  why  an  otter? 


ACT    III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


8CENR    in. 


Fal.  Why  ?  she  's  neither  fish,  nor  flesh ;  a  man 
knows  not  where  to  have  her. 

Host.  Thou  art  an  unjust  man  in  saying  so ;  thou 
or  any  man  knows  where  to  have  me,  thou  knave 
thou! 

P.  Hen.  Thou  sayest  true,  hostess ;  and  he  slan- 
derii  thee  most  grossly. 

Host.  So  he  doth  you,  ray  lord ;  and  said  this 
other  day,  you  ought  him  a  thousand  pound. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  do  I  owe  you  a  thousand  pound  ? 

Fal.  A  thousand  pound,  Hal  ?  a  million :  thy 
love  is  worth  a  million ;  thou  owest  me  thy  love. 

Host.  Nay,  my  lord,  he  called  you  Jack,  and 
said,  he  would  cudgel  you. 

Fal.  Did!,  Bardolph? 

Bard.  Indeed,  sir  John,  you  said  so. 

Fal.  Yea  ;  if  he  said,  my  ring  was  copper. 

P.  Hen.  I  say,  'tis  copper  :  Darest  thou  be  as 
good  as  thy  word  now  ? 

Fal.  Why,  Hal,  thou  knowest,  as  thou  art  but 
man,  I  dare :  but,  as  thou  art  prince,  I  fear  thee, 
as  I  fear  the  roaiing  of  the  lion's  whelp. 

P.  Hen.  And  why  not,  as  the  lion  ? 

Fal.  The  king  himself  is  to  be  feared  as  the 
lion  :  Dost  thou  think,  I'll  fear  thee  as  I  fear  thy 
father  ?  nay,  an  I  do,  I  pray  God,  ray  girdle 
break ! 

P.  Hen.  O,  if  it  should,  how  would  thy  guts  fall 
about  thy  knees  !  But,  sirrah,  there  's  no  room  for 
faith,  truth,  nor  honesty,  in  this  bosom  of  thine ; 
it  is  filled  up  with  guts,  and  midriff.  Charge  an 
honest  woman  with  picking  thy  pocket !  Why,  thou 
whoreson,  impudent,  embossed  rascal,  if  there  were 
any  thing  in  thy  pocket  but  tavern-reckonings, 
memorandums  of  bawdy-houses,  and  one  poor 
pennyworth  of  sugar-candy  to  make  thee  long- 
winded  ;  if  thy  pocket  were  enriched  with  any 
other  injuries  but  these,,!  am  a  villain.  And  yet 
you  will  stand  to  it ;  j'ou  will  not  pocket  up 
wrong  :  Art  thou  not  ashamed  ? 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear,  Hal  ?  thou  knowest,  in  the 
state  of  innocency,  Adam  fell ;  and  what  should 
pour  Jack  Falstaff  do,  in  the  days  of  villany  ?  Thou 
seest,  I  have  more  flesh  than  another  man ;  and 

theveforo  more  frailty. You  confess  then,  you 

picKe<.i  my  pocket  ?  i 


P.  Hen.  It  appears  so  by  the  story, 

Fal.  Hostess,  I  forgive  thee  :  Go,  make  ready 
breakfast;  love  thy  husband,  look  to  thy  servants, 
cherish  thy  guests :  thou  shalt  find  me  tractable 
to  any  honest  reason :  thou  seest,  I  am  pacified. — 
Still  ? — Nay,  pr'ythee,  be  gone,  [Exit  Hostess.] 
Now,  Hal,  to  the  news  at  court :  for  the  robbery, 
lad, — How  is  that  answered  ? 

P.  Hen.  0,  my  sweet  beef,  I  must  still  be  good 
angel  to  thee : — The  money  is  paid  back  again. 

Fal.  0, 1  do  not  like  that  paying  back,  't  is  a 
double  labour. 

P.  Hen.  I  am  good'friends  with  my  father,  and 
may  do  any  thing. 

Fal.  Rob  me  the  exchequer  the  first  thing  thou 
doest,  and  do  it  with  unwashed  hands  too. 

Bard.  Do,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  I  have  procured  thee.  Jack,  a  charge 
of  foot. 

Fal.  I  would,  it  had  been  of  horse.  Where 
shall  I  find  one  that  can  steal  well  ?  0  for  a  fine 
thief,  of  the  age  of  two-and-twenty,  or  thereabouts! 
I  am  heinously  unprovided.  Well,  God  be  th.-inked 
for  these  rebels,  they  oflfend  none  but  the  virtu- 
ous; I  laud  them,  I  praise  them. 

P.  Hen.  r.ardolph 

Bard.  My  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Go  bear  this  letter  to  lord  John  of  Lan- 
caster, 
My  brother  John  ;  this  to  my  lord  of  Westmore- 
land,— 
Go,  Poins,  to  horse,  to  horse ;  for  thou,  and  I, 

Have  thirty  miles  to  ride  yet  ere  dinner  time. 

Jack, 

Meet  me  to-morrow  i'  the  Temple-hall 
At  two  o'clock  i'  the  afternoon  : 
There  shalt  thou  know  thy  charge;  and  there  re- 
ceive 
Money,  and  order  for  their  furniture. 
TJje  land  is  burning;  Percy  stands  on  high  ; 
And  either  they,  or  we,  must  lower  lie. 

[Exeunt  Pkince,  Poins,  and  Bard. 

Fal.    Rare   words  !  brave  Avorld  ! Hostess. 

my  breakfast ;  come  : — 
O,  I  could  wish,  this  tavern  were  my  dr  im.  [Exit 

7  SI 


ACT  rv. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SOSNB   I. 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrewsbury. 

Enter  Hotspur,  Worcester,  and  Douglas. 

Hot.  Well  said,  my  noble  Scot:  If  speaking 
truth, 
In  this  fine  age,  were  not  thought  flattery, 
Such  attribution  should  the  ^Douglas  have. 
As  not  a  soldier  of  this  season's  stamp 
Should  go  so  general  curi-ent  through  the  world. 
By  heaven,  I  cannot  flatter  ;  I  defy 
The  tonj^-ues  of  soothers ;  but  a  braver  place 
In  ray  heart's  love,  hath  no  man  than  yourself: 
Nay,  task  me  to  the  word ;  approve  me,  lord. 

Doug.  Thou  art  the  king  of  honour: 
No  man  so  potent  breathes  upon  the  ground, 
But  I  will  beard  him. 

Hot.  Do  so,  and  't  is  well : — 

Enter  a  Messenger,  with  Letters. 

What  letters  hast  thou  there  ? — I  can  but  thank 
you. 
Mess.  These  letters  come  from  your  father, — 
Hot.  Letters  from   him !    why   comes   he   not 

himself? 
Mess.  He  cannot  come,  my  lord ;  he 's  grievous 

sick. 
Hot.  'Zounds  !  how  has  he  the  leisure  to  be  sick, 
In  such  a  justling  time?  Who  leads  his  power? 
Under  whose  government  come  they  along  ? 
Mess.  His  letters  bear  his  mind,  not  I,  my  lord. 
Wor.  I  pr'ythee,  tell  me,  doth  he  keep  his  bed  ? 
Mess.  He  did,   my   lord,   four  days  ere  I  set 
forth ; 
And  at  the  time  of  ray  departure  thence, 
He  was  much  fear'd  by  his  physicians. 

Wor.  I  would,  the  state  of  time  had  first  been 
whole, 
Eie  he  by  sickness  had  been  visited ; 
His  health  was  never  better  worth  than  now. 
Hot.  Sick  now  !  droop  now  1  this  sickness  doth 
infect 
The  very  life-blood  of  our  enterprise : 

"T  is  catching  hither,  even  to  our  camp. 

He  writes  me  here, — that  inward  sickness — 
And  that  his  friends  by  deputation  could  not 
So  soon  be  drawn ;  nor  did  he  think  it  meet, 
752 


To  lay  so  dangerous  md  dear  a  trust 

On  any  soul  remov'd,  but  on  his  own. 

Yet  doth  he  give  us  bold  advertisement, — 

That  with  our  small  conjunction,  we  should  or, 

To  see  how  fortune  is  dispos'd  to  us : 

For,  as  he  writes,  there  is  no  quailing  now ; 

Because  the  king  is  certainly  possess'd 

Of  all  our  purposes.     What  say  you  to  it? 

Wor.  Your  father's  sickness  is  a  maim  to  us. 

Hot.  A  perilous  gash,  a  very  limb  lopp'd  off:-  - 
And  yet,  in  faith,  't  is  not ;  his  present  want 
Seems  more  than  we  shall  find  it : — Were  it  good^ 
To  set  the  exact  wealth  of  all  our  states 
All  at  one  cast  ?  to  set  so  rich  a  main 
On  the  nice  hazard  of  one  doubtful  hour  ? 
It  were  not  good :  for  therein  should  we  read 
The  very  bottom  and  the  soul  of  hope ; 
The  very  list,  the  very  utmost  bound 
Of  all  our  fortunes. 

Doug.  'Faith,  and  so  we  should  ^ 

Where  now  remains  a  sweet  reversion  ; 
We  may  boldly  spend  upon  the  hope  of  what 
Is  to  come  in  : 
A  comfort  of  retirement"'  lives  in  this. 

Hoi.  A  rendezvous,  a  home  to  fly  unto, 
If  that  the  devil  and  mischance  look  big 
Upon  the  maidenhead  of  our  affairs. 

Wor.  But  yet,  I  would  your  father  had  been 
here. 
The  quality  and  hair  of  our  attempt^^ 
Brooks  no  division :  It  will  be  thought 
By  some,  that  know  not  why  he  is  away, 
That  wisdom,  loyalty,  and  mere  dislike 
Of  our  proceedings,  kept  the  earl  from  hence : 
And  think,  how  such  an  apprehension 
May  turn  the  tide  of  fearful  faction. 
And  breed  a  kind  of  question  in  our  cause : 
For,  well  you  know,  we  of  the  offering  side 
Must  keep  aloof  from  strict  arbitrement ; 
And  stop  all  sight  holes,  every  loop,  from  whence 
The  eye  of  reason  may  pry  in  upon  us : 
This  absence  of  your  father's  draws  a  curtain. 
That  shows  the  ignorant  a  kind  oi  tear 
Before  not  dreamt  of. 

Hot.  You  strain  too  far. 

I,  rather,  of  his  absence  make  this  use ; — 


'    '  >  >'       KINl}  HENRY  IV  1^HT1./V0.1V 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE  n. 


It  lends  a  lustre,  and  more  great  opinion, 
A  larger  dare  to  our  great  enterprise, 
Than  if  the  earl  were  here :  for  men  must  think, 
If  we,  without  his  help,  can  make  a  head 
To  push  against  the  kingdom  ;  with  his  help, 
We  shall  o'erturn  it  topsy-turvy  down. — 
Yet  all  goes  well,  yet  all  our  joints  are  whole. 
Doug.  As  heart  can  think  :  there  is  not  such  a 
word 
Spoke  of  in  Scotland,  as  this  term  of  fear. 

Enter  Sir  Richard  Vernon. 

Hot.  My  cousin  Vernon  !  welcome,  by  my  soul. 

Ver,  Pray  God,  my  news  be  worth  a  welcome, 
lord. 
The  earl  of  Westmoreland,  seven  thousand  strong, 
Is  marching  hitherwards  ;  with  him,  prince  John. 

Hot.  No  harm  :  what  more  ? 

Ver.  And  further,  I  have  learn'd, — 

The  king  himself  in  person  is  set  forth, 
Or  hitherwards  intended  speedily. 
With  strong  and  mighty  preparation. 

Hot.  He  shall  be  welcome  too.     Where  is  his 
son? 
The  nimble-footed  mad-cap  prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades,  that  daflPd  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass  ? 

Ver.  All  fumish'd,  all  in  arms, 

All  plura'd  like  estridsfes  that  wing  the  wind  ; 
Bated  like  eagles  having  lately  bath'd  ; 
Glittering  in  golden  coats,  like  images ; 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer ; 
Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls. 
I  saw  young  Harry, — with  his  beaver  on, 
His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm*d, — 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feather'd  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 
As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds. 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

Hot.  No  more,  no  more  ;  worse  than  the  sun 
in  March, 
This  praise  doth  nourish  agues.    Let  them  come  ; 
They  come  like  sacrifices  in  their  trim. 
And  to  the  fire-ey'd  maid  of  smoky  war. 
All  hot,  and  bleeding,  will  we  ofier  them: 
The  mailed  Mars  shall  on  his  altar  sit. 
Up  to  the  ears  in  blood.     I  am  on  fire. 
To  hear  this  rich  reprisal  is  so  nigh. 
And  yet  not  ours : — Come,  let  me  take  my  horse. 
Who  is  to  bear  me,  like  a  thunderbolt, 

95 


Against  ihe  bosom  of  the  prince  of  Wales : 
Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  horse  to  horse, 
Meet,  and  ne'er  part,  till  one  drop  down  a  corse. — 
0,  that  Glendower  were  come  ! 

Ver.  There  is  more  news : 

I  learn'd  in  Worcester,  as  I  rode  along, 
He  cannot  draw  his  power  this  fourteen  days. 

Doug.  That 's  the  worst  tidings  that  I  hear  of 
yet. 

Wor.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  that  bears  a  frosty  sound. 

Hot.  What  may  the  king's  whole  battle  reach 
unto  ? 

Ver.  To  thirty  thousand. 

Hot.  Forty  let  it  be ; 

My  father  and  Glendower  being  both  away. 
The  powers  of  us  may  serve  so  great  a  day. 
Come,  let  us  make  a  muster  speedily : 
Doomsday  is  near ;  die  all,  die  merrily. 

Doug.  Talk  not  of  dying  ;  I  am  out  of  fear 
Of  death,  or  death's  hand,  for  this  one  half-year. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  public  Road  near  Coventry. 

Enter  Falstaff  and  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Bardolph,  get  thee  before  to  Coventry ; 
fill  me  a  bottle  of  sack  ;  our  soldiers  shall  march 
through  ;  we  '11  to  Sutton-Colfield  to-night. 

Bard.  Will  you  give  me  money,  captain  ? 

Fal.  Lay  out,  lay  out. 

Bard.  This  bottle  makes  an  angel. 

Fal.  An  if  it  do,  take  it  for  thy  labour  ;  and  if 
it  make  twenty,  take  them  all,  T  'U  answer  the 
coinage.  Bid  my  lieutenant  Peto  meet  me  at  the 
town's  end. 

Bard.  I  will,  captain  :  farewell.  \Exit. 

Fal.  If  I  be  not  ashamed  of  my  soldiers,  I  am 
a  soused  gurnet.  I  have  misused  the  king's  press 
damnably.  I  have  got,  in  exchange  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  soldiers,  three  hundred  and  odd  pounds. 
I  press  me  none  but  good  householders,  yeomen's 
sons :  inquire  me  out  contracted  bachelors,  such 
as  had  been  asked  twice  on  the  bans  ;  such  a 
commodity  of  warm  slaves,  as  had  as  lief  hear 
the  devil  as  a  drum  ;  such  as  fear  the  report  of  a 
caliver,  woi-se  than  a  struck  fowl,  or  a  hurt  wild- 
duck.  I  pressed  me  none  but  such  toasts  and 
butter,  with  hearts  in  their  bellies  no  bigger  than 
pins'  heads,  and  they  have  bought  out  their  ser- 
vices ;  and  now  my  whole  charge  consists  of  an 
cients,  corporals,  lieutenants,  gentlemen  of  com 
Danies,  slaves  as  ragged  as  Lazarus  in  the  painted 

768 


FIRST  PART  OF 


bUKNB    m. 


cloth,  wiiere  the  glutton's  dogs  licked  his  sores : 
and  such  as,  indeed,  were  never  soldiers ;  but  dis- 
carded unjust  serving  men,  younger  sons  to 
younger  brothers,  revolted  tapsters,  and  ostlers 
trade-fallen  ;  the  cankers  of  a  calm  world,  and  a 
'ong  peace  ;  ten  times  more  dishonourable  ragged 
than  an  old  faced  ancient  :^^  and  such  have  I,  to 
fill  up  the  rooms  of  them  that  have  bought  out 
their  services,  that  you  would  think,  that  I  had 
a  hundred  and  fifty  tattered  prodigals,  lately  come 
from  swine-keeping,  from  eating  draff  and  husks. 
A  mad  fellow  met  me  on  the  way,  and  told  me,  I 
had  unloaded  all  the  gibbets,  and  pressed  the  dead 
bodies.  No  eye  hath  seen  such  scare-crows.  I  '11 
not  march  through  Coventry  with  them,  that 's 
flat : — Nay,  and  the  villains  march  wide  betwixt 
the  legs,  as  if  they  had  gyves  on ;  for,  indeed,  I 
had  the  most  of  them  out  of  prison.  There  's  but 
a  shirt  and  a  half  in  all  my  company :  and  the 
half-shirt  is  two  napkins,  tacked  together,  and 
thrown  over  the  shoulders  like  a  herald's  coat 
ivithout  sleeves ;  and  the  shirt,  to  say  the  truth, 
stolen  from  my  host  at  Saint  Albans,  or  the  red- 
nose  innkeeper  of  Daintry.^''  But  that 's  all  one ; 
they  '11  find  linen  enough  on  every  hedge. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Westmoreland. 

P.  Hen.  How  now,  blown  Jack?  how  now? 
quilt  ? 

Fal.  What,  Hal?  How  now,  mad  wag?  what 
a  devil  dost  thou  in  Warwickshire? — My  good 
lord  of  Westmoreland,  I  cry  you  mercy ;  I  thought, 
your  honour  had  already  been  at  Shrewsbury. 

West.  'Faith,  sir  John,  't  is  more  than  time 
that  I  were  there,  and  you  too  ;  but  my  powers 
are  there  already  :  The  king,  I  can  tell  you,  looks 
for  us  all ;  we  must  away  all  night. 

Fal.  Tut,  never  fear  me ;  I  am  as  vigilant  as  a 
cat  to  steal  cream. 

P.  TTen.  I  think,  to  steal  cream  indeed ;  for  thy 
theft  hath  already  made  thee  butter.  But  tell  me, 
Jack  ;  Whose  fellows  are  these  that  come  after  ? 

FaJ.  Mine,  Hal,  mine. 

P.  Hen.  I  did  never  see  such  pitiful  rascals. 

Fal.  Tut,  tut ;  good  enough  to  toss ;  food  for 
powder,  food  for  powder ;  they  '11  fill  a  pit,  as  well 
as  better :  tush,  man,  mortal  men,  mortal  men. 

West.  Ay,  but,  sir  John,  methinks  they  are 
exceeding  poor  and  bare ;  too  beggarly. 

Fal.  'Faith,  for  their   poverty, — I   know   not 
wnere  they  had  that :  and  for  their  bareness, — I 
am  sure,  they  never  learned  that  of  me. 
';r.4 


P.  Hen.  No,  I  '11  be  sworn ;  unless  you  call 
three  fingers  on  the  ribs,  bare.  But,  sirrah,  make 
haste ;  Percy  is  already  in  the  field. 

Fal.  What,  is  the  king  encamped  ? 

West.  He  is,  sir  John ;  I  fear,  we  shall  stay 
too  long. 

Fal  Well, 
To  the  latter  end  of  a  fray,  and  the  beginning  of 

a  feast, 
Fits  a  dull  fighter,  and  a  keen  guest.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Rebel  Camp  near  Shrewsbur>'. 

Enter  Hotspur,  Worcester,  Douglas,  and 
Vekxox. 

Hot.  We  '11  fio-ht  with  him  to-night 

Wor.  It  may  not  be. 

Doug.  You  give  him  then  advantage. 

Ver.  Not  a  whit. 

Hot.  Why  say  you  so  ?  looks  he  not  for  supply  ? 

Ver.  So  do  we. 

Hot.  His  is  certain,  ours  is  doubtful. 

Wor.  Good  cousin,  be   advis'd;    stir   not   to- 
night. 

Ver.  Do  not,  my  lord. 

Doug.  You  do  not  counsel  well 

You  speak  it  out  of  fear,  and  cold  heart. 

Ver.  Do  me  no  slander,  Douglas  :  by  my  life, 
(And  I  dare  well  maintain  it  with  my  life,) 
If  well-respected  honour  bid  me  on, 
I  hold  as  little  counsel  with  weak  fear. 
As  you,  my  lord,  or  any  Scot  that  lives  :- 
Let  it  be  seen  to-morrow  in  the  battle. 
Which  of  us  fears. 

Doug.  Yea,  or  to-night. 

Ver.  Content. 

Hot.  To-night,  say  I. 

Ver.  Come,  come,  it  may  not  be. 

I  wonder  much,  being  men  of  such  great  leading, 
That  you  foresee  not  what  impediments 
Drag  back  our  expedition  :  Certain  horse 
Of  my  cousin  Vernon's  are  not  yet  come  np  : 
Your  uncle  Worcester's  horse  came  but  to-day ; 
And  now  their  pride  and  mettle  is  asleep. 
Their  courage  with  hard  labour  tame  and  dul , 
That  not  a  horse  is  half  the  half  himself. 

Hot.  So  are  the  hoi-ses  of  the  enemy 
In  general,  journey-bated  and  brought  low ; 
The  better  part  of  ours  is  full  of  rest. 

Wor.  The  number  of  the  king  exceedeth  o  irs : 
For  God's  sake,  cousin,  stay,  till  all  come  in. 

\Thc  Trumpet  sounds  a  pc  'ley. 


I 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENK    If. 


Enter  Sir  Walter  Blunt. 

BlurU.  I  come  with  gracious  offers  fi-om  the 
king, 
If  you  vouchsafe  me  hearing,  and  respect. 

Hot.  Welcome,  sir  Walter  Blunt ;  and  'would 
to  God, 
You  were  of  our  determination  ! 
Some  of  us  love  you  well :  and  even  those  some 
Envy  your  great  deserving,  and  good  name ; 
Because  you  are  not  of  our  quality. 
But  stand  against  us  like  an  enemy. 

Blunt.    And  God  defend,  but   still  I  should 
stand  so. 
So  long  as,  out  of  limit,  and  true  rule. 
You  stand  against  anointed  majesty  ! 
But,  to  my  charge. — The  king  hath  sent  to  know 
The  nature  of  your  griefs  ;  and  whereupon 
You  conjure  from  the  breast  of  civil  peace 
Such  bold  hostility,  teaching  his  duteous  land 
Audacious  cruelty  :  If  that  the  king 
Have  any  way  your  good  deserts  forgot,  — 
Which  he  confesseth  to  be  manifold, — 
He  bids  you  name  your  griefs  ;  and,  with  all  speed, 
You  shall  have  your  desires,  with  interest ; 
And  pardon  absolute  for  yourself,  and  these. 
Herein  misled  by  your  suggestion. 

Hot.  The  king  is  kind ;  and  well  we  know,  the 
king 
Knows  at  what  time  to  promise,  when  to  pay. 
My  father,  and  my  uncle,  and  myself, 
Did  give  him  that  same  royalty  he  wears : 
And, — when  he  was  not  six-and-twenty  strong, 
Sick  in  the  world's  regard,  wretched  and  low, 
A  poor  unminded  outlaw  sneaking  home, — 
Mv  father  gave  him  welcome  to  the  shore  : 
And, — when  he  heard  him  swear,  and  vow  to  God, 
He  came  but  to  be  duke  of  Lancaster, 
To  sue  his  livery,"  and  beg  his  peace ; 
With  tears  of  innocency,  and  terms  of  zeal, — 
My  father,  in  kind  heart  and  pity  mov'd. 
Swore  him  assistance,  and  perform'd  it  too. 
Now,  when  the  lords,  and  barons  of  the  realm, 
Perceiv'd  Northumberland  did  lean  to  him, 
The  more  and  less  came  in  with  cap  and  knee ; 
Met  him  in  boroughs,  cities,  villages ; 
Attended  him  on  bridges,  stood  in  lanes, 
Laid  gifts  before  him,  profFer'd  him  their  oaths, 
Gave  him  their  heirs ;  as  pages  follow'd  him, 
Even  at  the  heels,  in  golden  multitudes. 
He  presently, — as  greatness  knows  itself, — 
Steps  me  a  little  higher  than  his  vow 
Made  to  my  father,  while  his  blood  was  poor 


Upon  the  naked  shore  at  Ravenspurg, 
And  now,  forsooth,  takes  on  him  to  reform 
Some  certain  edicts,  and  some  strait  decrees. 
That  lie  too  heavy  on  the  commonwealth  : 
Cries  out  upon  abuses,  seems  to  weep 
Over  his  country's  wrongs :  and,  by  this  face. 
This  seeming  brow  of  justice,  did  he  win 
The  hearts  of  all  that  he  did  angle  for. 
Proceeded  further ;  cut  me  off  the  heads 
Of  all  the  favourites,  that  the  absent  king 
In  deputation  left  behind  him  here. 
When  he  was  personal  in  the  Irish  war. 

Blunt.  Tut,  I  came  not  to  hear  this. 

Hot.  Then,  to  the  point. 

In  short  time  after,  he  depos'd  the  king ; 
Soon  after  that,  deprived  him  of  his  life ; 
And,  in  the  neck  of  that,  task'd  the  whole  state 
To  make  that  worse,  suffer'd  his  kinsman  March 
(Who  is,  if  every  owner  were  well  plac'd, 
Indeed  his  king,)  to  be  incag'd  in  Wales, 
There  without  ransom  to  lie  forfeited  : 
Disgrac'd  me  in  my  happy  victories  ; 
Sought  to  entrap  me  by  intelligence ; 
Rated  my  uncle  from  the  council-board  ; 
In  rage  dismiss'd  my  father  from  the  court ; 
Broke  oath  on  oath,  committed  wrong  on  wrong : 
And,  in  conclusion,  drove  us  to  seek  out 
This  head  of  safety  ;  and,  \vithal  to  pry 
Into  his  title,  the  which  we  find 
Too  indirect  for  long  continuance. 

Blunt.  Shall  I  return  this  answer  to  the  king* 

Hot.  Not  so,  sir  Walter :  we'll  withdraw  awhile. 
Go  to  the  king ;  and  let  there  be  impawn'd 
Some  surety  for  a  safe  return  again, 
And  in  the  morning  early  shall  mine  uncle 
Bring  him  our  purposes :  and  so  farewell. 

Blunt.  I  would,  you  would  accept  of  grace  and 
love. 

Hot.  And,  may  be,  so  we  shall. 

Blunt.  'Pray  heaven,  you  do  !     [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— York.    A  Room  in  the  Archbishop's 
House. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  and  a  Gentleman. 

Arch.  Hie,  good  sir  Michael ;  bear  this  sealed! 
brief. 
With  winged  haste,  to  the  lord  marshal ; 
This  to  my  cousin  Scroop ;  and  all  the  rest 
To  whom  they  are  directed  :  if  you  knew 
How  much  they  do  import,  you  would  make  haste 
Gent.  My  good  lord, 

766 


ACT   V. 


FIRST  PAKT  OF 


SCEKB   L 


guess  their  tenor. 

Arch.  Like  enough  you  do. 

To-morrow,  good  sir  Michael,  is  a  day, 
Wherein  the  fortune  of  ten  thousand  men 
Must  'bide  the  touch  :  For,  sir,  at  Shrewsbury, 
As  I  am  truly  given  to  understand, 
The  king,  with  mighty  and  quick-raised  power. 
Meets  with  lord  Harry  :  and  I  fear,  sir  Michael, — 
What  with  the  sickness  of  Northumberland, 
(Whose  power  was  in  the  first  proportion,) 
And  what  with  Owen  Glendower's  absence,  thence, 
(Who  with  them  was  a  rated  sinew  too. 
And  comes  not  in,  o'er-ruled  by  prophecies,) — 
I  fear  the  power  of  Percy  is  too  weak 
To  wage  an  instant  trial  with  the  king. 

Gent.  Why,  good  my  lord,  you  need  not  fear; 
there 's  Douglas, 
A.nd  Mortimer. 

Arch.  No,  Mortimer's  not  there. 

Gent.  But  there  is  Mordake,  Vernon,  lord  Hany 
Percy, 


And  there  's  my  lord  of  Worcester :  and  a  head 
Of  gallant  warriors,  noble  gentlemen. 

Arch.  And  so  there  is  :  but  yet  the  king  hath 
drawn 
The  special  head  of  all  the  land  together ; — 
The  prince  of  Wales,  lord  John  of  Lancaster, 
The  noble  Westmoreland,  and  warlike  Blunt ; 
And  many  more  cor-rivals,  and  dear  men 
Of  estimation  and  command  in  arms. 

Gent.  Doubt  not,  my  lord,  they  shall  be  well 
oppos'd. 

Arch.  I  hope  no  less,  yet  needful 't  is  to  fear ; 
And,  to  prevent  the  worst,  sir  Michael,  speed  ; 
For,  if  lord  Percy  thrive  not,  ere  the  king 
Dismiss  his  power,  he  means  to  visit  us, — 
For  he  hath  heard  of  our  confederacy. 
And  't  is  but  wisdom  to  make  strong  against  him 
Therefore,  make  haste  :  I  must  go  write  again 
To  other  friends ;  and  so  farewell,  sir  Michael. 

\Exeunt  severally 


ACT    V 


SCENE  L-    The  King's  Camp  ntar  Shrewsbury. 

FJnter  Kino  Henry,  Prince  Henry,  Prince 
John  of  Lancaster,  Sir  Walter  Blunt,  and 
Sir  John  Falstaff. 

K.  Hen.  How  bloodily  the  sun  begins  to  peer 
Above  yon  busky  hill !  the  day  looks  pale 
At  his  distemperature. 

P.  Hen.  The  southern  wind 

Doth  play  the  trumpet  to  his  purposes ; 
And,  by  his  hollow  whistling  in  the  leaves, 
Foretels  a  tempest,  and  a  blustering  day. 

K.   Hen.   Then  with  the   losers  let  it  sympa- 
thize ; 
For  nothing  can  seem  foul  to  those  that  win. — 

Trumpet.     Enter  Worcester  and  Vernon. 

How  now,  my  lord  of  Worcester  ?  't  is  not  well. 
That  you  and  I  should  meet  upon  such  terms 
As  now  we  meet :  You  have  deceiv'd  our  trust ; 
And  made  us  doff  our  easy  robes  of  peace, 
to  crush  our  old  limbs  in  ungentle  steel  : 
This  is  not  well,  my  lord,  this  is  not  well. 
What  say  you  to  't?  will  you  again  unknit 
This  churlish  knot  of  all-abhorred  war  ? 


And  move  in  that  obedient  orb  again. 

Where  you  did  give  a  fair  and  natural  light ; 

And  be  no  more  an  exhal'd  meteor, 

A  prodigy  of  fear,  and  a  portent 

Of  broached  mischief  to  the  unborn  times? 

Wor.  Hear  me,  my  liege  : 
For  mine  own  part,  I  could  be  well  content 
To  entertain  the  lag-end  of  my  life 
With  quiet  hours  ;  for,  I  do  protest, 
I  have  not  sought  the  day  of  this  dislike. 

K.  Hen.  You  have  not  sought  for  it !  how  come:: 
it  then  ? 

Fal.  Rebellion  lay  in  his  way,  and  he  found  it 

P.  Hen.  Peace,  chewet,  peace.^^ 

Wor.  It  pleas'd  your  majesty,  to  turn  your  looks 
Of  favour,  from  myself,  and  all  our  house  ; 
And  yet  I  must  remember  you,  ray  lord. 
We  were  the  first  and  dearest  of  your  friends. 
For  you,  my  staff  of  office  did  I  break 
In  Richard's  time :  and  posted  day  and  night 
To  meet  you  on  the  way,  and  kiss  your  hand, 
When  yet  you  were  in  place  and  in  account 
Nothing  so  strong  and  fortunate  as  I. 
It  was  myself,  my  brother,  and  his  son. 
That  brought  you  home,  and  boldly  did  outdare 


KTN-&  JI£2^'m  W-  TAJl T  l.ACTV.SC  2. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENX    I. 


The  dangers  of  the  time  :  You  swore  to  us, — 
And  you  did  swear  that  oath  at  Don  caster, — 
That  you  did  nothing  purpose  'gainst  the  state; 
Nor  claim  no  further  than  your  new-fall'n  right. 
The  seat  of  Gaunt,  dukedom  of  Lancaster : 
To  this  we  swore  our  aid.     But,  in  short  space, 
It  rain'd  down  fortune  showering  on  your  head  ; 
And  such  a  flood  of  greatness  fell  on  you, — 
What  with  our  help;  what  with  the  absent  king; 
What  with  the  injuries  of  a  wanton  time ; 
The  seeming  sufferances  that  you  had  borne ; 
And  the  contrarious  winds,  that  held  the  king 
So  long  in  his  unlucky  Irish  wars. 
That  all  in  England  did  repute  him  dead, — 
And,  from  this  swarm  of  fair  advantages. 
You  took  occasion  to  be  quickly  woo'd 
To  gripe  the  general  sway  into  your  hand : 
Forgot  your  oath  to  us  at  Doncaster ; 
And,  being  fed  by  us,  you  us'd  us  so 
As  that  ungentle  gull,  the  cuckoo's  bird, 
Useth  the  sparrow  :  did  oppress  our  nest : 
Grew  by  our  feeding  to  so  great  a  bulk, 
That  even  our  love  durst  not  come  near  your  sight, 
For  fear  of  swallowing ;  but  with  nimble  wing 
We  were  enforc'd,  for  safety  sake,  to  fly 
Out  of  your  sight,  and  raise  this  present  head  : 
Whereby  we  stand  opposed  by  such  means 
As  you  yourself  have  forg'd  against  yourself; 
By  unkind  usage,  dangerous  countenance. 
And  violation  of  all  faith  and  troth 
Sworn  to  us  in  your  younger  enterprise. 

K.  Hen.  These  things,  indeed,  you  have  artic- 
ulated, 
Proclaim'd  at  market-crosses,  read  in  churches ; 
To  face  the  garment  of  rebellion 
With  some  fine  color,  that  may  please  the  eye 
Of  fickle  changelings,  and  poor  discontents. 
Which  gape,  and  rub  the  elbow,  at  the  news 
Of  hurlyburly  innovation : 
And  never  yet  did  insurrection  want 
Such  water-colours,  to  impaint  his  cause; 
Nor  moody  beggars,  starving  for  a  time 
Of  pellmell  havoc  and  confusion. 

P.  Hen.  In  both  our  armies,  there  is  many  a  soul 
Shall  pay  full  dearly  for  this  encounter, 
If  once  they  join  in  trial.     Tell  your  nephew. 
The  prince  of  Wales  doth  join  with  all  the  world 
In  praise  of  Henry  Percy  :  By  my  hopes, — 
This  present  enterprise  set  oflf  his  head, — 
I  do  not  think,  a  braver  gentleman. 
More  active-valiant,  or  more  valiant-young. 
More  daring,  or  more  bold,  is  now  alive. 


To  grace  this  latter  age  with  noble  deeds. 
For  my  part,  I  may  speak  it  to  my  shame, 
I  have  a  truant  been  to  chivalry ; 
And  so,  I  hear,  he  doth  account  me  too  : 

Yet  this  before  my  father's  majesty, 

I  am  content,  that  he  shall  take  the  odds 
Of  his  great  name  and  estimation  ; 
And  will,  to  save  the  blood  on  either  side. 
Try  fortune  with  him  in  a  single  fight. 

K.  Hen.  And,  prince  of  Wales,  so  dare  we  yen 
ture  thee, 
Albeit,  considerations  infinite 
Do  make  against  it : — No,  good  Worcester,  no. 
We  love  our  people  well  f  even  those  we  love, 
That  are  misled  upon  your  cousin's  part : 
And,  will  they  take  the  offer  of  our  grace, 
Both  he,  and  they,  and  you,  yea,  every  man 
Shall  be  my  friend  again,  and  I  '11  be  his  : 
So  tell  your  cousin,  and  bring  me  word 
What  he  will  do : — But  if  he  will  not  yield, 
Rebuke  and  dread  correction  wait  on  us, 
And  they  shall  do  their  office.     So,  be  gone; 
We  will  not  now  be  troubled  with  reply  : 
We  offer  fair,  take  it  advisedly. 

[^Exeunt  Wor.  and  Vers 

P.  Hen.  It  will  not  be  accepted,  on  my  life : 
The  Douglas  and  the  Hotspur  both  together 
Are  confident  against  the  world  in  arms. 

K.  Hen.  Hence,  therefore,  every  leader  to  his 
charge ; 
For,  on  their  answer,  will  we  set  on  them : 
And  God  befriend  us,  as  our  cause  is  just ! 

[^Exeunt  King,  Blunt,  and  P.  John.] 

Fal.  Hal,  if  thou  see  me  down  in  the  battle, 
and  bestride  me,  so  ;  't  is  a  point  of  friendship. 

P.  Hen.  Nothing  but  a  colossus  can  do  thee 
that  friendship.     Say  thy  prayers,  and  farewell. 

Fal.  I  would  it  were  bed-time,  Hal,  and  all  well. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  thou  owest  God  a  death.  [Exit. 

Fal.  'T  is  not  due  yet ;  I  would  be  loath  to  pay 
him  before  his  day.  What  need  I  be  so  forward 
with  him  that  calls  not  on  me  ?  Well,  't  is  no  mat- 
ter :  Honour  pricks  me  on  ?  Yea,  but  how  if  hon- 
our prick  me  off  when  I  come  on  ?  how  then  ?  Can 
honour  set  to  a  leg  ?  No.  Or  an  arm  ?  No.  Or 
take  away  the  grief  of  a  wound  ?  No.  Honour 
hath  no  skill  in  surgery  then  ?  No.  What  is  honour? 
A  word.  What  is  in  that  word,  honour  ?  What 
is  that  honour  ?  Air.  A  trim  reckoning  ! — Who 
hath  it  ?  He  that  died  o'  Wednesday.  Doth  he  feel 
it  ?  No.  Doth  he  hear  it  ?  No.  Is  it  insensible 
then  ?  Yea,  to  the  dead.   But  will  it  not  Hve  with 


ACT    V. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENK  n. 


the  living  ?  No,  Why  ?  Detraction  will  not  suffer 
it : — therefore  I  '11  none  of  it :  Honour  is  a  mere 
scutcheon,  and  so  ends  my  catechism.  [Exit. 


SCENE  \l.—The  Rebel  Camp. 

Enter  Worcester  and  Vernon. 

Wor.  0,  no,  my  nephew  must  not  know,  sir 
Richard, 
The  liberal  kind  offer  of  the  king. 

Ver.  'T  were  best,  he  did. 

Wor.  Then  are  we  all  undone. 

It  is  not  possible,  it  cannot  be, 
The  king  should  keep  his  word  in  loving  us  ; 
He  will  suspect  us  still,  and  find  a  time 
To  punish  this  offence  in  other  faults  : 
Suspicion  shall  be  all  stuck  full  of  eyes : 
For  treason  is  but  trusted  like  the  fox ; 
Who,  ne'er  so  tame,  so  cherish'd,  and  lock'd  up. 
Will  have  a  wild  trick  of  his  ancestors. 
Look  how  we  can,  or  sad,  or  merrily, 
Interpretation  will  misquote  our  looks  ; 
And  we  shall  feed  like  oxen  at  a  stall. 
The  better  cherish'd,  still  the  nearer  death. 
My  nephew's  trespass  may  be  well  forgot, 
It  hath  the  excuse  of  youth,  and  heat  of  blood  ; 
And  an  adopted  name  of  privilege, — 
A  hare-brain'd  Hotspur,  govern'd  by  a  spleen  : 
All  his  offences  live  upon  my  head, 
And  on  his  father's  ; — we  did  train  him  on  ; 
And,  his  corruption  being  ta'en  from  us, 
We,  as  the  spring  of  all,  shall  pay  for  all. 
Therefore,  good  cousin,  let  not  Harry  know, 
In  any  case,  the  offer  of  the  king. 

Ver.  Deliver  what  you  will,  I  '11  say,  't  is  so. 
Here  comes  your  cousin. 

Enter  Hotspur  and  Douglas  ;  and  OflSceis  and 
Soldiers,  behind. 

Hot.  My  uncle  is  return 'd  : — Deliver  up 
My  lord  of  Westmoreland.^ — Uncle,  what  news  ? 

Wor.  The  king  will  bid  you  battle  presently. 

Doug.  Defy  him  by  the  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

Hot.  Lord  Douglas,  go  you  arid  tell  him  so, 

Doug.  Marry,  and  shall,  and  very  willingly, 

[Exit. 

Wor.  There  is  no  seeming  mercy  in  the  king. 

Hot.  Did  you  beg  any  ?  God  forbid  ! 

Wor.  I  told  him  gently  of  our  grievances. 
Of  his  oath-breaking  ;  which  he  mended  thus, — 
By  now  forswearing  that  he  is  forsworn  : 
768 


He  calls  us  rebels,  traitors ;  and  will  .Loourge 
With  haughty  arms  this  hateful  name  in  us. 

Re-enter  Douglas, 

Doug.  Arm,  gentlemen  ;  to  arms  !  for  1  hare 
thrown 
A  brave  defiance  in  King  Henry's  teeth. 
And  Westmoreland,  that  was  engag'd,  did  bear  it ; 
Which  cannot  choose  but  bring  him  quickly  on, 

Wor.  The  prince  of  Walfes  stepp'd  forth  before 
the  king. 
And,  nephew,  challeng'd  you  to  single  fight. 

Hot.  0,  'would  the  quarrel  lay  upon  our  heads ; 
And  that  no  man  might  draw  short  breath  to-da) 
But  I,  and  Harry  Monmouth !  Tell  me,  tell  me. 
How  show'd  his  tasking?  seem'd  it  in  contempt? 

Ver.  No,  by  my  soul ;  I  never  in  my  life 
Did  hear  a  challenge  urg'd  more  modestly. 
Unless  a  brother  should  a  brother  dare 
To  gentle  exercise  and  proof  of  arms. 
He  gave  you  all  the  duties  of  a  man  ; 
Trimm'd  up  your  praises  with  a  princely  tongue ; 
Spoke  your  deservings  like  a  chronicle ; 
Making  you  ever  better  than  his  praise. 
By  still  dispraising  praise,  valued  with  you  : 
And,  which  became  him  like  a  prince  indeed, 
He  made  a  blushing  cital  of  himself; 
And  chid  his  truant  youth  with  such  a  grace. 
As  if  he  master'd  there  a  double  spirit. 
Of  teaching,  and  of.  learning,  instantly. 
There  did  he  pause :  But  let  me  tell  the  world, — 
If  he  outlive  the  envy  of  this  day, 
England  did  never  owe  so  sweet  a  hope. 
So  much  misconstrued  in  his  wantonness. 

Hot.  Cousin,  I  think,  thou  art  enamoured 
Upon  his  follies  ;  never  did  I  hear 
Of  any  prince,  so  wild,  at  liberty  : — 
But,  be  he  as  he  will,  yet  once  ere  night 
I  will  embrace  him  with  a  soldier'sarm. 

That  he  shall  shrink  under  my  courtesy, 

Arm,  arm,  with  speed  : And,  fellows,  soldiers, 

friends. 
Better  consider  what  you  have  to  do, 
Than  I,  that  have  not  well  the  gift  of  tongue, 
Can  lift  your  blood  up  with  persuasion. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  here  are  letters  for  you. 

Hot.  I  cannot  read  them  now, — 
0  gentlemen,  the  time  of  life  is  short ; 
To  spend  that  shortness  basely,  were  too  long, 
If  life  did  ride  upon  a  dial's  point. 


ACT    V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  F01:RT'[. 


SCENE    111. 


Still  ending  at  the  arrival  of  an  hour. 
A.n  if  we  live,  we  live  to  tread  on  kings  ; 
If  die,  brave  death,  when  princes  die  with  us ! 
Now  for  our  conscience, — the  arms  are  fair, 
When  the  intent  of  bearing  them  is  just. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  prepare;  the  king  comes  on 
apace. 

Hot.  I  thank  him,  that  he  cuts  me  from  my  tale. 
For  I  profess  not  talking  :  Only  this — 
Let  each  man  do  his  best :  and  here  draw  1 
A  sword,  whose  temper  I  intend  to  stain 
With  the  best  blood  that  I  can  meet  withal 
In  the  adventure  of  this  perilous  day. 
Now, — Esperance  ! — Percy  ! — and  set  on. — 
Sound  all  the  lofly  instruments  of  war. 
And  by  that  music  let  us  all  embrace : 
For,  heaven  to  earth,  some  of  us  never  shall 
A  second  time  do  such  a  courtesy. 

[^The  Trum'pets  sound.     They  embrace^  and 
exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Plain  near  Shrewsbury. 

Excursions^  and  Parties  fighting.  Alarum  to  the 
Battle.  Then  enter  Douglas  and  Blunt, 
meeting. 

Blunt.  What  is  thy  name,  that  in  the  battle  thus 
Tliou  Grossest  me  ?  what  honour  dost  thou  seek 
Upon  my  head  ? 

Doug.  Know  then,  my  name  is  Douglas ; 

And  I  do  haunt  thee  in  the  battle  thus. 
Because  some  tell  me  that  thou  art  a  king. 

Blunt.  They  tell  thee  true. 

Doug.  The  lord  of  Stafford  dear  to-day  hath 
bought 
Thy  likeness;  for,  instead  of  thee,  king  Harry, 
This  sword  hath  ended  him  :  so  shall  it  thee. 
Unless  thou  yield  thee  as  my  prisoner. 

Blunt.  I  was  not  born  a  yielder,  thou  proud 
Scot; 
And  thou  shalt  find  a  king  that  will  revenge 
Lord  Stafford's  death. 

[They  fight,  and  Blunt  is  slain. 

Enter  Hotspur. 

Hot.  O  Douglas,  hadst  thou  fought  at  Holme- 
don  thus, 
I  never  had  triumph'd  upon  a  Scot. 

Doug.  All 's  done,  all  's  won ;  here  breathless 
hes  the  kinar. 


Hot.  Where? 
Doug.  Here. 

Hot.  This,  Douglas ;  no,  I  know  this  face  full 
well: 
A  gallant  knight  he  was,  his  name  was  Blunt ; 
Semblaby  furnish'd  like  the  king  himself. 

Doug.    A  fool  go   with  thy  soul,   whither   il 
goes! 
A  borrow'd  title  hast  thou  bought  too  dear. 
Why  didst  thou  tell  me  that  thou  wert  a  king? 
Hot.  The   king  hath    many  marching   in  his 

coats. 
Doug.  Now,  by  my  sword,  I  will  kill  all  hi? 
coats ; 
I  '11  murder  all  his  wardrobe,  piece  by  piece. 
Until  I  meet  the  king. 

Hot.  Up,  and  away ; 

Our  soldiers  stand  full  fairly  for  the  day.     [Exeunt. 

Other  Alarums.     Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Though  I  could  'scape  shot-free  at  London 
I  fear  the  shot  here  ;  here  's  no  scoring,  but  upon 
the  pate.— Soft !  who  art  thou  ?  Sir  Walter  Blunt 
— there  's  honour  for  you  :  Here  's  no  vanity  !"' 
— I  am  as  hot  as  molten  lead,  and  as  heavy  too  : 
God  keep  lead  out  of  me  !  I  need  no  more  weight 
than  mine  own  bowels. — I  have  led  my  ragga- 
muffins  where  they  are  peppered :  there 's  but 
three  of  my  hundred  and  fifty  left  alive  ;  and  they 
are  for  the  town's  end,  to  beg  during  life.  But 
who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Prince  Henry. 

P.  Hen    What,  stand'st  thou  idle  here?  lena 
me  thy  sword : 
Many  a  nobleman  lies  stark  and  stiff 
Under  the  hoofs  of  vaunting  enemies. 
Whose  deaths  are  unreveng'd :  Pr'ythee,  lend  thy 
sword. 

Fal.  O  Hal,  I  pr'ythee,  give  me  leave  to 
breathe  awhile. — Turk  Gregory  never  did  such 
deeds  in  arms,™  as  I  have  done  this  day.  I  have 
paid  Percy,  I  have  made  him  sure. 

P.  Hen.  He  is,  indeed  ;  and  living  to  kill  thee. 
Lend  me  thy  sword,  I  pr'ythee. 

Fal.  Nay,  before  God,  Hal,  if  Percy  be  alive, 
thou  gett'st  not  my  sword  ;  but  take  my  pistol,  if 
thou  wilt.  • 

P.  Hen.  Give  it  me  :  What,  is  it  in  the  case  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  Hal ;  't  is  hot,  't  is  hot ;  there  's  that 
will  sack  a  city. 

[The  Prince  draws  out  a  bottle  of  sack. 
•759 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE  rr. 


P.  Hen.  What,  is  't  a  time  to  jest  and  dally 
jiow  ?  [Throws  it  at  him,  and  exit. 

Fal.  Well,  if  Percy  be  alive,  I  '11  pierce  him. 
U  lie  do  come  in  my  way,  so :  if  he  do  not,  if  I 
come  in  his,  willingly,  let  him  make  a  carbonado 
of  me.  I  like  not  such  grinning  honour  as  sir 
Walter  hath :  Give  me  life :  which  if  I  can  save, 
so  ;  if  not,  honour  comes  unlooked  for,  and  there 's 
an  end.  \Exit. 

SCENE  IN.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.    Excursions.    Enter  the  King,  Prince 
Henry,  Prince  John,  and  Westmoreland. 

K.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee, 
Barry,    withdraw     thyself;    thou    bleed'st     too 

much : — 
Lord  John  of  Lancaster,  go  you  with  him. 

P.  John.  Not  I,  my  lord,  unless  I  did  bleed  too. 

P.  Hen.  I  do  beseech  your  majesty,  make  up. 
Lest  your  retirement  do  amaze  your  friends. 

K.  Hen.  I  will  do  so : — 
My  lord  of  Westmoreland,  lead  him  to  his  tent. 

West.  Come,  my  lord,  I  will  lead  you  to  your 
tent. 

P.  Hen.  Lead   me,  my  lord  ?  I  do  not  need 
your  help : 
And  heaven  forbid,  a  shallow  scratch  should  drive 
The  prince  of  Wales  from  such  a  field  as  this  ; 
Where  stain'd  nobility  lies  trodden  on, 
And  rebels'  arms  triumph  in  massacres. 

P.  John.  We  breathe  too  long : — Come,  cousin 
•  Westmoreland, 

C)ur  duty  this  way  lies  ;  for  God's  sake,  come. 

\Exeunt  P.  John  and  West. 

P.  Hen.  By  heaven,  thou  hast  deceived  me, 
Lancaster, 
I  did  not  think  thee  lord  of  such  a  spirit : 
Before,  I  lov'd  thee  as  a  brother,  John  ; 
But  now,  I  do  respect  thee  as  my  soul. 

K.  Hen.  I  saw  him  hold  lord  Percy  at  the  point, 
With  lustier  maintenance  than  I  did  look  for 
Of  such  an  ungrown  warrior. 

P.  Hen.  O,  this  boy 

Lends  mettle  to  us  all !  [Exit. 

Alarums.    Enter  Douglas. 

Doug.  Another  king  1  they  grow  like  Hydra's 
heads : 
i  am  the  Douglas,  fatal  to  all  those 
That  wear  those  colours  on  them. — What  art  thou, 
760 


That  counterfeit'st  the  person  of  a  king  ? 

K.   Hen.    The   king   himself;   who,  Douglas, 
grieves  at  heart. 
So  many  of  his  shadows  thou  hast  met, 
And  not  the  very  king.     I  have  two  boys, 
Seek  Percy,  and  thyself,  about  the  field  : 
But,  seeing  thou  fall'st  on  me  so  luckily, 
I  will  assay  thee ;  so  defend  thyself 

Doug.  I  fear,  thou  art  another  counterfeit ; 
And  yet,  in  faith,  thou  bear'st  thee  like  a  king : 
But  mine,  I  am  sure,  thou  art,  whoe'er  thou  be, 
And  thus  I  win  thee. 

[They  fight ;  the  King  being  in  danger,  enter 
Prince  Henry. 
P.  Hen.  Hold  up  thy  head,  vile  Scot,  or  thou 
art  like 
Never  to  hold  it  up  again  !  the  spirits 
Of  Shirley,  Stafford,  Blunt,  are  in  my  arms : 
It  is  the  prince  of  Wales,  that  threatens  thee  ; 
Who  never  promiseth,  but  he  means  to  pay. — 

[  They  fight ;  Doug .  fiies. 
Cheerly,  ray  lord  :  How  fares  your  grace  ? — 
Sir  Nicholas  Gawsey  hath  for  succour  sent, 
And  so  hath  Clifton  ;  I  '11  to  Clifton  straight. 

K.  Hen.  Stay,  and  breathe  a  while : — 
Thou  hast  redeem'd  thy  lost  opinion  ; 
And  shovv'd,  thou  mak'st  some  tender  of  my  life, 
In  this  fair  rescue  thou  hast  bi'ought  to  me. 
P.  Hen.    0  heaven  !  they  did  me  too  much 
injury. 
That  ever  said,  I  hearken'd  for  your  death. 
If  it  were  so,  I  might  have  let  alone 
The  insulting  hand  of  Douglas  over  you  ; 
Which  would  have  been  as  speedy  in  your  end, 
As  all  the  poisonous  potions  in  the  world, 
And  sav'd  the  treacherous  labour  of  your  son. 
K.  Hen.  Make  up  to  Clifton,  I  '11  to  sir  Nicho- 
las Gawsey.  [Exit  K.  Hen, 

Enter  Hotspur. 

Hot.  If  I  mistake  not,  thou  art  Harry  Mon- 
mouth. 

P.  Hen.  Thou  speak'st  as  if  I  would  deny  my 
name. 

Hot.  My  name  is  Harry  Percy. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  then  I  se« 

A  very  valiant  rebel  of  the  name. 
I  am  the  prince  of  Wales  ;  and  think  not,  Percy, 
To  share  with  me  in  glory  any  more  : 
Two  stars  keep  not  their  motion  in  one  sphere ; 
Nor  can  one  England  brook  a  double  reign, 
Of  Harry  Percy,  and  the  prince  of  Wales. 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


3CENB  rr. 


Hot.  Nor  shall  it,  Harry,  for  the  hour  is  come 
To  end  the  one  of  us ;  and  'would  to  God, 
Thy  name  in  arms  were  now  as  great  as  mine ! 
P.  Hen.  I  '11  make  it  greater,  ere  I  part  from 
thee" 
And  all  the  buiding  honours  on  thy  crest 
I  '11  crop,  to  make  a  garland  for  my  head. 
Hot,  I  can  no  longer  brook  thy  vanities. 

\They  fight. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  Well  said,  Hal !  to  it,  Hal !— Nay,  you 
shall  find  no  boy's  play  here,  I  can  tell  you. 

Enter  Douglas  ;  he  fights  ivith  Falstaff,  who 
falls  down  as  if  he  were  dead,  and  exit  Doug- 
las.    Hotspur  it  wounded,  and  falls. 

Hot.  0,  Harry,   thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  my 

youth," 
I  better  brook  the  loss  of  brittle  life. 
Than  those  proud  titles  thou  hast  won  of  me ; 
They  wound  my  thoughts,  worse  than  thy  sword 

my  flesh : — 
But  thought 's  the  slave  of  life,  and  life  time's  fool ; 
And  time,  that  takes  survey  of  all  the  world. 
Must  have  a  stop.     O,  I  could  prophesy, 
But  that  the  earthy  and  cold  hand  of  death 
Lies  on  my  tongue : — No,  Percy,  thou  art  dust. 

And  food  for [Dies. 

P.  Hen.    For  worms,  brave  Percy  :  Fare  thee 

well,  great  heart ! — 
lU-weav'd  ambition,  how  much  art  thou  shrunk ! 
When  that  this  body  did  contain  a  spirit, 
A  kingdom  for  it  was  too  small  a  bound ; 
But  now,  two  paces  of  the  vilest  earth 
Is   room   enough  : — This   earth,  that  bears  thee 

dead, 
Bears  not  alive  so  stout  a  gentleman. 
If  thou  wert  sensible  of  courtesy, 
I  should  not  make  so  dear  a  show  of  zeal : — 
But  let  my  favours  hide  thy  mangled  face ;" 
And,  even  in  thy  behalf,  I  '11  thank  myself 
For  doing  these  fair  rites  of  tenderness. 
Adieu,  and  take  thy  praise  with  thee  to  heaven ! 
Thy  ignomy  sleep  with  thee  in  the  grave, 
But  not  remember'd  in  thy  epitaph  ! — 

\He  sees  Fal.  on  the  ground. 
What !  old  acquaintance  !  could  not  all  this  flesh 
Keep  in  a  little  life  ?     Poor  Jack,  farewell ! 
I  could  have  better  spared  a  better  man. 
O,  I  should  have  a  heavy  miss  of  thee, 
If  I  were  much  in  love  with  vanity. 


Death  hath  not  struck  so  fat  a  deer  to-day, 
Though  many  deai-er,  in  this  bloody  fray  : — 
Embowell'd  will  I  see  thee  by  and  by ; 
Till  then,  in  blood  by  noble  Percy  lie.  [Exit. 

Fal.  [Rising  slowly^  Embowelled !  if  thou 
embowel  me  to-day,  I  '11  give  you  leave  to  powder 
me,  and  eat  me  too,  to-morrow.  'Sblood,  't  was 
time  to  counterfeit,  or  that  hot  termagant  Scot 
had  paid  me  scot  and  lot  too.  Counterfeit  ?  I 
lie,  I  am  no  counterfeit :  To  die,  is  to  be  a  c(  un- 
terfeit ;  for  he  is  but  the  counterfeit  of  a  man, 
who  hath  not  the  life  of  a  man :  but  to  counter- 
feit dying,  when  a  man  thereby  liveth,  is  to  be  no 
counterfeit,  but  the  true  and  perfect  image  of  hfe 
indeed.  The  better  part  of  valour  is — discretion  ; 
in  the  which  better  part,  I  have  saved  my  life. 
'Zounds,  I  am  afraid  of  this  gunpowder  Percy, 
though  he  be  dead  :  How,  if  he  should  counter- 
feit too,  and  rise  ?  I  am  afraid,  he  would  prove 
the  better  counterfeit.  Therefoi-e  I  '11  make  him 
sure  :  yea,  and  I  '11  swear  I  killed  him.  Why 
may  not  he  rise,  as  well  as  I  ?  Nothing  confutes 
me  but  eyes,  and  nobody  sees  me.  Therefore, 
sirrah,  [Stabbing  Am,]  with  a  new  wound  in 
your  thigh,  come  you  along  with  me. 

[Takes  Hot.  on  his  back. 

Re-enter  Prince  Henry  and  Prince  John. 

P.  Hen.  Come,  brother  John,  full  bravely  hast 
thou  flesh'd 
Thy  maiden  sword. 

P.  John.  But,  soft !  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Did  you  not  tell  me,  this  fat  man  was  dead  ? 

P.  Hen.  I  did  ;  I  saw  him  dead,  breathless  and 
bleeding 

Upon  the  ground. 

Art  thou  alive  ?  or  is  it  phantasy 
That  plays  upon  our  eyesight?  I  pr'ythee,  speak: 
We  will  not  trust  our  eyes,  without  our  ears  : — 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st. 

Fal.  No,  that 's  certain ;  I  am  not  a  double 
man  :  but  if  I  be  not  Jack  Falstaff,  then  am  I  a 
Jack.  There  is  Percy :  [Throwing  the  body  down^ 
if  your  father  will  do  me  any  honour,  so  ;  f  not, 
let  him  kill  the  next  Percy  himself.  I  look  to  be 
either  earl  or  duke,  I  can  assure  you. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  Percy  I  killed  myself,  and  saw 
thee  dead. 

Fdl.  Didst  thou  ? — Lord,  lord,  how  this  world 
is  given  to  lying ! — I  grant  you  I  was  down,  and 
out  of  breath ;  and  so  was  he :  but  we  rose  both 
at  an  instant,  and  fought  a  long  hour  by  Shrews- 

•761 


AC!    V. 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCKKB    V. 


bury  clock.  If  I  may  be  believed,  so ;  if  not,  let 
them,  that  should  reward  valour,  bear  the  sin  upon 
their  own  heads.  I  '11  take  it  upon  ray  death,  I 
^ave  him  this  wound  in  the  thigh :  if  the  man 
were  alive,  and  would  deny  it,  I  would  make  him 
3at  a  piece  of  my  sword. 

P.  John.  This  is  the  strangest  tale  that  e'er  I 

heard. 
P.  Hen.  This  is  the  strangest  fellow,  brother 

John. 

Come,  bnng  your  luggage  nobly  on  your  back : 
For  my  part,  if  a  lie  may  do  thee  grace, 
I  '11  gild  it  with  the  happiest  terms  T  have. 

\^A  retreat  is  sounded. 
The  trumpet  sounds  retreat,  the  day  is  ours. 
Come,  brother,  let  's  to  the  highest  of  the  field, 
To  see  what  friends  are  living,  who  are  dead. 

[^Exeunt  P.  Hen.  and  P.  John. 

Fa,l.  I  'II  follow,  as  they  say,  for  reward.     He 

ihat  rewards  me,  God  reward  him  !     If  I  do  grow 

great,  I  '11  grow  less ;  for  I  '11  purge,  and  leave  sack, 

and  live  cleanly,  as  a  noblem.an  should  do. 

[^E.vit,  hearing  off  the  Body. 

SCENE  Y .—Another  part  of  the  Field. 

The  Trumpets  sound.  'Enter  King  Henry, 
Prince  Henry,  Prince  John.  Westmore- 
land, and  Others,  with  Worcester  and  Ver- 
non, prisoners. 

K.  Hen.  Thus  ever  did  rebellion  find  rebuke, — 
[Inspirited  Woi'cester !  did  we  not  send  grace, 
Pardon,  and  terms  of  love  to  all  of  you  ? 
And  would'st  thou  turn  our  ofi'ers  contrary  ? 
Misuse  the  tenor  of  thy  kinsman's  ti'ust  ? 
Throe  knights  upon  our  party  slain  to-day, 
A  noble  earl,  and  many  a  creature  else, 
Had  been  alive  this  hour, 
If,  like  a  Christian,  thou  hadst  truly  borne 
!3elwixt  our  armies  true  intelligence. 


Wot.  What  I  have  done,  my  safety  urg'd  me  to ; 
And  T  embrace  this  fortune  patiently. 
Since  not  to  be  avoided  it  falls  on  me. 

K.  Hen.  Bear  Worcester  to  the  death,  and  Ver- 
non too : 
Other  offenders  we  will  pause  upon. — 

\Exeunt  Wor.  and  Vern.,  guarded. 
How  goes  the  field  ? 

P.  Hen.  The  noble  Scot,  lord  Douglas,  when 
he  saw 
The  fortune  of  the  day  quite  turn'd  from  him. 
The  noble  Percy  slain,  and  all  his  men 
Upon  the  foot  of  fear, — fled  with  the  rest ; 
And,  falling  from  a  hill,  he  was  so  bruis'd, 
That  the  pursuers  took  him.     At  ray  tent 
The  Douglas  is  ;  and  I  beseech  your  grace, 
I  may  dispose  of  him. 

K.  Hen.  With  all  my  heart. 

P.  Hen.  Then,  brother  John  of  Lancaster  to 
you 
This  honourable  bounty  shall  belong: 
Go  to  the  Douglas,  and  deliver  him 
Up  to  his  pleasure,  ransomless,  and  free  : 
His  valour,  shown  upon  our  crests  to-day. 
Hath  taught  us  how  to  cherish  such  high  deeds, 
Even  in  the  bosom  of  our  adversaries. 

K.  Hen.  Then   this   remains, — that  we   divide 
our  power. — 
You,  son  Jolm,  and  my  cousin  Westmoreland, 
Towards  York  shall  bend  you,  with  your  dearest 

speed, 
To  meet  Northumberland,  and  the  prelate  Scroop, 
Who,  as  we  hear,  are  busily  in  arms : 
Myself,  —  and    you,    son    Harry, —  will    towards 

Wales, ' 
To  fight  with  Glendower,  and  the  earl  of  March. 
Rebellion  in  this  land  shall  lose  his  sway 
Meeting  the  check  of  such  another  day  : 
And  since  this  business  so  fair  is  done. 
Let  us  not  leave  till  all  our  own  be  won.     Exexint. 


NOTES  TO  Um  HENRY  THE  FOURTH, 

(PART   THE   FIRST.) 


^        — 


1  Ac  TTwre  the  tJdrsty  entrails  of  this  soil 
Shall  daub  her  lips  with  her  own  children's  blood. 

There  has  been  much  debate  respecting  this  passage, 
some  reading  tlie  thirsty  Erinnys,  meaning  tlie  fury  of  dis- 
cord. The  poet  appears  to  personify  tlie  earth,  represent- 
ing it  as  a  motlier,  and  its  parched  cracks,  or  furrows,  as 
tlie  lips  by  wliieh  it  drank  the  blood  of  its  own  children. 

-  And  many  limits  of  the  charge. 
That  is,  calculations,  or  estimates  of  the  expense. 

«  Mordake  the  Earl  of  Fife,  and  eldest  son 
To  heaten  Douglas. 

Shakespeare  here  represents  the  Earl  of  Fife  as  the  eldest 
son  of  Douglas  ;  tins  is  an  error.  The  account  stands  tlius 
in  Holinshed — "  and  of  prisoners,  Mordacke  earl  of  i'ife, 
son  to  tie  gouvernour  Archembald  earle  Douglas,"  &c. 
The  want  of  a  comma  after  governoar,  makes  these  words 
appear  to  be  the  description  of  one  and  the  same  person, 
and  in  this  sense  Shakespeare  understood  them ;  but  by 
putting  a  stop  after  the  word  governor,  it  will  be  evident 
that  the  first  prison'.r  was  Iilordake,  who  was  the  son  of 
the  governor  of  Scotland,  and  Douglas  was  the  second. 

••  The  prisoners. 

Percy  had  by  the  law  of  arms  an  exclusive  right  to  these 
prisoners  ;  every  soldier  'vho  had  taken  any  captive  whose 
redemption  did  not  exceed  ten  thousand  crowns,  had  him 
for  himself,  either  to  free  or  ransom  as  he  pleased.  Though 
Percy  could  not  keep  the  Earl  of  Fife,  as  being  a  prince  oT 
royal  blood,  Henry  might  claim  him  by  his  acknowledged 
military  prerogative. 

s  Another  room  in  the  palace. 

There  must  be  some  error  in  this  description  of  the 
scene.  The  Prince  and  Falstail'  would  scarcely  carry  on 
their  revels  in  a  room  of  the  king's  palace.  Such  a  resort 
would  not  be  safe  for  Falstaff,  and  the  Prince  is  described 
as  absent  from  the  court.  It  is  not  the  tavern  in  East- 
cheap,  as  Falataff  appoints  to  meet  tlie  Prince  there  ;  pos- 

!       Bibly  it  is  the  lodgings  of  the  latter,  or  some  tavern  which 

i       tney  occasionally  frequented. 

I  "  FlcOibus, — he,  that  wandering  knight  so  fair. 

I  Falstaflf  starts  the  idea  of  Fhod/us,  i.  e.,  the  sun ;  but  runs 


off  to  an  allusion  to  El  Lonzel  del  Feho,  the  knight  of  tlie 
sun  in  a  Spanish  romance,  translated  into  English  in  the 
age  of  Shakespeare.  Perhaps  the  words  "  that  wandering 
knight  so  fair,"  are  part  of  some  forijottoii  ballad  on  the 
adventures  of  this  hero. 

'  Let  not  us  that  are  squires  of  the  nighVs  body  be  called 
thieves  of  the  day'^s  beauty. 

Theobald  would  read — of  the  day's  booty,  and  the  mean- 
ing then  would  be  : — Let  us  not  be  called  thieveis,  robbers 
of  that  which  to  its  lawful  owners  was  booty  derivable  by 
honest  industry  by  day.  Mr.  Stecvens  thinks  no  altera- 
tion necessary,  but  says — "  1  believe  our  poet,  by  the  ex- 
pression, thieves  of  the  day's  beauty,  meant  only,  let  not  us 
who  are  body  squires  to  the  night,  i.  e.  adorn  the  night,  be 
called  a  disgrace  to  the  day.  To  take  away  the  beauty  oi 
the  day,  may  probably  mean,  to  disgrace  it." 

/ 

"*  As  the  honey  of  Hyhla,  rny  old  lad  of  the  castle. 

It  has  been  said  that  this  passage  countenances  a  tradi- 
tion that  the  ])art  of  Falstaff  was  originally  written  under 
the  name  of  Oldcastle, — old  lad  of  the  castle  seeming  to 
refer  to  Oldcastle.  The  opinion  that  Falstaff  was  intended 
to  ridicule  Sir  John  Oldcastle  is  met  and  denied  by  the  poet 
in  the  epilogue  to  the  second  part  of  Henry  IV.,  wliere  he 
says,  "  for  Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  is  not  tht 
man.''"'  In  an  old  play  on  the  subject  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Sir  John  Oldcastle  plays  a  similar  part  to  that  of  Falstaii'', 
and  appears  to  have  suggested  the  latter  character  to  Shakes- 
peare. Oldcastle  was  the  companion  and  friend  of  Prince 
Henry  in  his  youth  ;  but  although  he  might  have  been  a 
boon  companion,  he  was  a  brave  and  conscientious  man: 
he  became  tlie  leader  of  an  insurrection  of  the  Lollards, 
and  was  hanged,  and  afterwards  burned  on  the  gibbet. 
His  character,  at  the  suggestion  of  his  Catholic  persecutors, 
was  exposed  to  ridicule  and  infamy  on  the  stage  ;  but  it  ia 
a  libel  on  the  humanity  of  Shakespeare  to  suppose  him 
guilty  of  heaping  scorn  upon  the  grave  of  a  brave  and 
noble-minded  man,  who  by  a  number  of  people  was  es- 
teemed a  martyr.  Dr.  Farmer  says,  old  lad  of  the  castU 
is  the  same  with  old  lad  of  Castile,  a  Castilian — probably 
a  cant  phrase  of  the  day. 

0  /  am  as  mdancholy  as  a  gib  cat. 

A  gib  cat  is  probably  a  gelded  eat ;  all  animals  so  muti- 
lated are  said  to  lose  their  spirit,  and  grow  tamo  and  dtili. 

763 


NOTES  TO  THE  FIRST  PART  OF 


> 


>o  W7iat  gayest  t  M^i  to  a  hare,  or  the  melanclioly  of 
Moor-ditch. 

The  flesh  cf  the  hare  was  supposed  to  grenerate  melan- 
choly in  those  who  partook  of  it.  In  Webster's  Vittoria 
Qjroinhona,  1612,  we  have  the  following  allusion  to  the  sup- 
posed dejection  of  this  animal:  — 

Like  yoiir  melancholy  hare, 

Feed  after  midnight. 

Again,  in  Drayton's  PolyoUiion,  song  the  second — 

The  melancholy  hare  is  form'd  in  brakes  and  briars. 

In  Stowe's  Survey,  i*;  appears  that  a  broad  and  stagnant 
ditch  formerly  parted  the  hospital  from  Moorfields.  That 
it  might  well  be  called  an  "  unsavoury"  object  for  a  simile 
may  be  gathered  from  News  from  JleU,  brought  by  the 
DiveVs  Carrier,  1606  :  —  "As  touching  the  river,  lookc 
how  Moor-ditch  shews  when  the  water  is  three-quarters 
drayned  out,  and  by  reason  the  stomacke  of  it  is  over- 
laden, is  ready  to  fall  to  casting.  So  does  that ;  it  stinks 
almost  worse,  is  almost  as  poysonous,  altogether  so  muddy, 
altogether  so  black." 

'1  Thou  earnest  not  of  the  blood  royal  {f  thou  darest  not  stand 
for  ten  shillings. 

Hero  is  a  poor  jest  which  time  has  obscured.  The  real 
or  royal  was  of  the  value  of  ten  shillings.  Falstaff  means 
the  prince  is  not  royal  (or  a  royal)  if  he  will  not  s^tand  (pass) 
for  ten  shillings. 

"  Faretoell,  all-hallown  summer. 

That  is,  thou  cold  or  dead  summer.  All-TiaUows  is 
.ill-halloivn  tide,  or  All-Saints^  I^^Hi  which  is  the  first  of 
November. 

18  Sirrah. 

It  has  created  surprise  that  Poins  should  use  this  ab- 
rupt term  to  the  prince,  but  Mr.  Malone  tells  us  that  in 
Shakespeare's  time  it  was  not  invariably  used  as  a  term  of 
disrespect. 

"  Meet  me  to-morrow  night. 

Shakespeare  is  frequently  careless  with  respect  to  time  ; 
we  should  read  to-night,  for  the  robbery  was  to  be  com- 
mitted at  four  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

'*  nis  brother-in-law,  the  foolish  Mortimer. 

Percy  was  not  the  brother-in-law  of  Mortimer,  the  Earl 
of  March ;  it  appears  from  Dugdale's  and  Sandford's  ac- 
count of  the  Mortimer  family,  that  there  were  two  Ed- 
munds, each  of  whom  was  taken  prisoner  at  different 
times  by  Glendower.  Edmund  the  Earl  of  March,  the 
Mortimer  of  this  play,  was  nephew  to  Lady  Percy ;  the 
jther,  Sir  Edmund  Mortimer,  was  uncle  to  the  former,  and 
brother  to  Lady  Percy. 

"  And  on  my  face  he  turn'd  an  eye  of  death. 
Trembling  even  at  the  name  of  Mortimer. 

An  eye  of  death,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  is  an  eye  menacing 
death ;  the  king  is  trembling  with  rage  rather  than  with 
fear;  for  th.is  the  critic  is  taken  to  task  by  Mr.  M.  Mason, 
who  thinks  he  had  more  reason  to  fear  the  man  who  had 
a  better  title  to  the  crown  than  himself.  It  is  evident  that 
if  Henry  felt  fear  he  was  not  the  ma  a  to  reveal  it;  he 
■764 


would  have  disguised  it  in  anger  ;  while  the  tenor  of  Hio 
whole  scene  shows  that  it  was  anger  and  not  fear  that  in- 
fluenced him. 

"  Arid  tJtat  same  sword-and-lucJcler  Prince  of  Wales. 

The  sword  and  buckler  were  weapons  worn  by  servanta 
and  by  low  fellows.  Thus,  in  Florio's  First  Fruites, 
1578 : — "  What  weapons  bear  they  ? — Some  sword  and 
dagger,  some  sv/ord  and  buckler. — What  weapon  is  that 
buckler? — A  clownish,  dastardly  weapon,  and  not  fit  for  a 
gentleman." 

'8  Cousin,  fareweU. 

In  Shakespeare's  time,  cousin  was  a  common  address  to 
nephews,  nieces,  and  grandchildren,  and  was,  indeed,  fre- 
quently applied  to  a  relative  of  any  kind.  Hotspur  was 
Worcester's  nephew. 

'»  Charles'  wai/n. 

This  is  a  vulgar  name  given  to  the  constellation  calloH 
the  Bear. 

"»  Out  of  all  cess,  i.  e.  out  of  all  measure. 

21  The  bots,  i.  e.  worms  in  the  stomach  of  a  horse. 

22  Breeds  fleas  like  a  loach. 

A  loach  is  a  small  fish,  and  exceedingly  prolific.  The 
carrier  therefore  means  to  saj-,  that  "your  chamber-lie 
breeds  fleas  as  fast  as  the  .oach"  breeds, — not  fleas,  but 
loaches. 

25  Ithinls  it  be  two  o'' clock. 

It  is  evident  that  the  carrier  suspects  Gadshill,  and  en- 
deavours to  mi.^lead  him  as  to  the  hour,  because  he  has  just 
said  thas  it  vf&sfour  o'clock. 

2-'  A  franklin,  i.  e.  a  landed  gentleman, 

^'■>  Saint  Xicholas''  clerks. 

A  cant  name  for  thieves  or  highwaymen.  St.  Nicholas 
was  the  patron  saint  of  scholars,  who  were  therefore 
called  St.  Nicholas's  clerks.  Hence,  by  a  quibble  between 
Kicliolas  and  Old  Nick,  the  name  has  has  been  extended 
to  highwaymen. 

2«  Other  Trojans. 

A  TVojan  appears  to  be  a  cant  name  for  swindler  or 
thief. 

3'  lam  joined  with  no  foot  land-rakers,  no  long-staff,  six- 
penny strikers ;  none  of  these  mad,  mustachio  purple-hned 
malt-worm^. 

A  foot  land-raker  v:tis  a  foot-pad  or  wandering  thief;  a 
sixpenny  striker,  a  paltry,  brutal  depredator,  who  would 
commit  assault  and  rol  bery,  even  for  the  sake  of  si.xpence ; 
and  IS, purple-hued,  malt-worm,  a  red  or  purple- faced  drunk- 
ard who  got  intoxicated  upon  ale. 

«»  Burgomasters,  and  great  oiieyers. 

Probably  moneyers,  monied  men,  or  bankers.  A  moneyer 
is  an  otRcer  of  the  m  .nt  who  makes  coin  and  delivers  out 
the  king's  money. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


»»  We  have  the  receipt  of  fern-seed^  we  walk  invisible. 

The  seed  of  the  fern  is  contained  in  the  back  of  the  leaf, 
and  is  so  small  as  to  escape  the  sight ;  but  as  the  fern  was 
propagated  by  semiaation,  it  was  commonly  supposed 
that  it  possessed  an  invisible  seed,  and  at  length,  a  prop- 
erty of  communicating  the  power  of  invisibility  was  at- 
tributed to  it 

3"  What  a  plague  mean  ^eto  coU  me  thus  ? 

That  is,  to  fool  or  trick  me ;  but  the  prince,  taking  it  in 
another  sense,  opposes  it  by  uncoU,  i.  e.  unhorse. 

"  Enter  Hotspur^  reading  a  letter. 

This  letter  was  from  George  Dunbar,  Earl  of  March,  in 
Scotland. 

^  Esperance. 

This  was  the  motto  of  the  Percy  family. 

*3    Wilt  thou  roh  this   leathern-jerkin,  crystal-button,  nott- 
pated,  agate-ring,  puke-stocking,  caddis-garter. 

The  prince  asks  the  drawer  if  he  will  rob  his  master, 
whom  he  denotes  by  the  above  contemptuous  expressions. 
It  is  said  that  a  leather  jerkin  with  crystal  buttons,  was 
the  dress  of  a  pawnbroker,  and  probably,  therefore,  that 
of  a  tavern-keeper.  A  person  was  said  to  be  nott-pated, 
when  the  hair  was  cut  short  and  round.  Kay  says  the 
word  is  still  used  in  Essex  for  polled  or  shorn.  Puke  stock- 
ings, are  supposed  to  be  stockings  of  a  russet-black,  and  of 
a  coarse  material,  worn  by  persons  of  inferior  condition  us 
a  matter  of  economy.  Caddis  was  probably  a  kind  of  coarse 
ferret.  In  our  poet's  time  the  garters  were  worn  in  sight, 
and,  consequently,  were  often  very  costly.  Servants  and 
others,  who  wore  common  ones,  were  sometimes  called  by 
the  contemptuous  name  of  caddis-garters. 

s*  Why  tJien  your  brown  bastard. 

Bastard  was  a  kind  of  sweet  wine.  "  The  prince,"  says 
Dr.  Johnson,  "finding  the  waiter  not  able,  or  not  willing, 
to  understand  his  instigation,  puzzleb  him  with,  uncon- 
nected prattle,  and  drives  him  away." 

35  Rivo,  says  the  drunkard. 

Hivo  was  a  cant  word  among  roysterers,  probably  mean- 
ing be  merry.    Thus  Marston, — 

If  thou  art  sad  nt  other's  fate, 

Rivo  drink  deep,  give  care  the  mate. 

so  Didst  thou  never  see  Titan  kiss  a  dish  of  butter  f  pitiful- 
hearted  Titan,  that  malted  at  the  sweet  tale  of  the  son. 

This  is  a  very  obscure  passage,  and  much  controversy 
has  been  expended  on  it.  The  folio  has  sun ;  but  that 
reading  has  been  rejected  by  most  editors.  Mr.  Steevens 
Bays: — "Our  author  might  have  written  pitiful-hearted 
Titan,  who  melted  at  the  sweet  tale  of  his  son,  i.  e.  of 
Phaeton,  who  by  a  plausible  story,  won  on  the  easy  nature 
of  his  father  so  lar,  as  to  obtain  from  him  the  guidance  of 
bis  chariot  for  a  day."  Mr.  Malone  tells  us, — "  The  prince, 
undoubtedly,  by  the  words,  '  Didst  thou  never  see  Titan 
kiss  a  dish  of  butter  ?' alludes  to  Falstaff's  entering  iu  a 
great  heat,  his  fat  dripping  with  the  violence  of  his  mo- 
tion, as  butter  does  with  the  heat  of  th  sun.  Our  author 
hero,  as  in  many  other  places,  having  started  an  idea,  leaves 
it,  and  goes  to  another  that  has  but  a  very  slight  connexion 


with  the  former.  Thus  the  idea  of  butter  melted  by  Titan 
or  the  sun,  suggests  to  him  the  idea  of  Titan's  being  melted 
or  softened  by  the  tale  of  his  son  Phaeton." 

3^  /  would  I  were  a  weaver ;  I  could  sir,^  psalms  or  any 
thing. 

Weavers  were  long  distinguished  for  their  love  of  psal» 
mody  and  other  music.  In  the  persecution  of  the  Protes- 
tants in  Flanders,  under  Philip  II.,  those  who  came  over 
to  England  on  that  occasion  brought  with  them  the  woollen 
manufactory.  They  were  Calvinists,  and  much  attaehea 
to  sacred  music.  Falstaff  wishes  that  he  could  be  a  weaver 
and  sing  like  them,  to  divert  his  mind. 

3*  TaUow-keech. 

A  keeoh  of  tallow  is  the  fat  of  an  ox  rolled  up  in  a  round 
lump,  in  order  to  be  sent  to  the  melters. 

»»  Away,  you  starveling,  you  elf-skin. 

Many  of  the  commentators  would  read  eel-skin,  as  being 
more  applicable  than  elf-skin  ;  the  skin  of  an  imp  or  fairy 
bearing  no  resemblance  to  the  prince,  while  a  tall  thin  man 
may  very  fairly  be  humorously  likened  to  a  stuffed  eel-skin. 
Shakespeare  had  historical  authority  for  the  leanness  of 
the  prince.  Stowe  says,  "he  exceeded  the  mean  stature 
of  men,  his  neck  long,  body  slender  and  lean,  and  his 
bones  small,"  &c. 

40  Give  him  as  much  as  will  make  him  a  royal  man. 

The  prince  intends  a  pun  upon  the  words  noble  and  royal. 
The  value  of  the  noble  was  6«.  %d. ;  that  of  the  royal,  10«. 
"  This,"  says  Mr.  Toilet,  "  seems  to  allude  to  a  jest  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  Mr.  John  Blower,  in  a  sermon  before  her  ma- 
jesty, said,  '  My  royal  queen  ;'  and  a  little  after,  '  My  nobla 
queen.'  Upon  which  the  queen  exclaimed  : — '  What !  ara 
I  ten  groats  worse  than  I  was  V  " 

"  A  Welsh  hook. 

An  offensive  instrument,  pointed  like  a  spear,  to  push 
or  thrust  with ;  and  which  below  had  a  hook  to  seize  tha 
enemy  if  he  should  attempt  to  escape  by  flight. 

••"  Well,  here  is  my  leg. 
That  is,  my  obeisance  to  my  father. 

<3  Prove  a  micher,  and  eat  blackberries. 

Kmicher  is  a  truant;  to  mich  is  to  lurk  out  of  sight. 
The  allusion  is  to  a  truant  boy,  who,  unwilling  to  go  to 
school,  and  afraid  to  go  home,  lurks  in  the  fields,  and  picks 
wild  fruit. 

"4  Hang  me  up  by  the  heels  for  a  rabbit-sucker,  or  a  povlt«rU 
hare. 

Dr.  Johnson  thinks  rabbit-sucker  meant  sucking  rabbit; 
but  it  was  more  probably  a  weasel.  Falstaff  is  comparing 
himself  to  something  thin  and  little.  A  poulterer  was 
formerly  written  a  poulter. 

*^  Bolting-hutch,  i.  e.  the  wooden  receptacle  into  which 
the  meal  is  bolted. 

<•  That  roasted  Manningtree  ox. 

Manningtree,  in  Essex,  was  famous  for  the  richness  of 

7Co 


NOTES  TO  THE  FIRST  PART  OF 


Its  siirr  funding  pastures.  Fairs  were  held  there,  at  which 
moralit.es  and  other  entertainments  were  represented,  and 
it  appears  to  have  been  customary  on  these  occasions  to 
roast  an  ox  entire. 

"  MetMnks,  my  moiety,  north  from  Burton  here. 

They  had,  in  anticipation  of  victory,  divided  the  land 
into  three  portions,  over  which  Mortimer,  Glendower,  and 
Hotspur  were  to  rule.  A  maiety  was  frequently  used  in 
Shakespeare's  time  as  a  portion  of  anything:  not  divided 
into  two  parts. 

■"'  A  brazen  canstick  turri'd. 

A  canstu'h  is  merely  an  abbre  /iation  of  candlestick,  the 
latter  word  being  too  long  for  the  line.  Hc\"wood,  and 
several  of  the  old  writers,  constantly  use  the  word  canstick 
lu  this  sense. 

<9  7  HI  haste  the  writer,  i.  e.  the  writer  of  the  indentures 
just  alluded  to. 

^  With  telling  me  of  tim  mxmld-warp  and  tJoe  ant. 

This  alludes  to  an  old  prophecy  which  influenced  Glen- 
dower in  taking  up  arms  against  the  king.  Tlie  mould- 
warp,  it  is  said,  was  to  be  subdued  by  a  wolf,  a  dragon,  and 
a  lion.  The  mouldwarp  was  interpreted  to  bo  Henry,  and 
the  confederated  nobles  were  the  wolf,  dragon,  and  lion. 
The  mould-warp  i,s  the  mole. 

*'  You  are  too  xvilful-llame. 

"  This,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  is  a  mode  of  speech  with 
which  I  am  not  acquainted.  Perhaps  it  might  be  read — 
too  wilful  blunt,  or,  too  wilful  bent ;  or  thus : — 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  are  to  blame,  too  wilful." 

»*  Upon  the  wanton  rushes  lay  you  down. 

\\j  was  long  the  custom  of  our  ancestors  to  strew  their 
floors  with  rushes,  as  we  now  cover  them  with  carpets. 

"  '7' IS  the  next  way  to  turn  tailor,  or  be  red-bread  teacher. 

The  next  way,  is  the  nearest  way.  Tailors  seem  to  have 
been  almost  as  remarkable  for  singing  as  weavers ;  thus 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher . — "  Never  trust  a  tailor  that  does 
not  sing  at  his  work;  his  mind  is  on  nothing  but  filch- 
ing." Hotspur  implies  that  singing  is  a  mean  employment, 
and  that  those  who  practise  it  are  on  the  road  to  turn  tail- 
on  or  teachers  of  birds. 

**  Bagh  bavin  wits. 

Bavin  is  brushwood,  which  when  lighted  burns  fiercely, 
but  is  soon  out ;  it  was  used  in  the  poet's  time  for  kindling 
fires.  The  king  means  thoughtless  fiery  talkers,  reckless 
companions. 

'5  Carded  hin  state. 

A  metaphor  probably  taken  from  t  \q  practice  of  ming- 
ling coarse  wool  with  fine,  and  carding  them  togetiier,  by 
which  means  the  value  of  tlie  latter  is  diminished.  But 
Mr.  Eitson  says,  that  by  carding  his  sfMe,  the  king  means 
that  Richard  set  his  state  to  hazard,  and  played  it  away,  as 
a  man  loses  a  fortune  at  (iards. 

»'  Of  every  beardless  vain  comparative. 

That  is,  of  every  boy  whose  vanity  incited  him  to  try  his 
mix.  against  the  king. 
7fi6 


V  "  Lord  Mortimer  of  So'-iland  hath  sent  word. 

There  was  no  Lord  Mortimer  of  Scotland ;  the  person 
alluded  to  is  the  Lord  March  of  Scotland.  Shakespeare 
had  a  recollection  that  there  was  a  Soi^tish  lord  on  the  side 
of  Henry,  who  bore  the  same  title  witli  the  English  family 
on  the  rebel  side,  (one  being  the  Earl  of  March  in  England, 
and  the  other  the  Earl  of  March  iii  Scotland,)  but  his 
memory  deceived  him  with  respect  to  the  name.  He  took 
it  to  be  Mortiiaer,  instead  oi  March. 

68  IJoiu  now.  Dame  Partlet  the  hen. 
t  ' 

Dame  Partlet  is  the  name  of  the  hen  in  the  old  story- 
book of  Reynard  the  Fox, :  and  in  Chaucer's  tale  of  The  Cock 
and  the  Fox,  the  favourite  hen  is  called  dame  Pertelote. 

s°  Ttiere  '*  no  more  faith  in  thee,  than  in  a  stewed  prune  ;  nor 
no  more  truth  in  thee,  than  in  a  drawn,  fox. 

Steived  prunes  were  sold  in  brothels,  and  were  considered 
not  only  as  a  provocative,  but  also  as  a  remedy  against 
infection.  Their  practical  want  of  success  in  this  direc- 
tion, may  have  brought  them  into  an  ill  name.  Therefore 
Falstaff'  says,  "there  's  no  more,  faith  in  thee  than  in  s 
stewed  prune."  A  drawn  fox  may  be  an  embowelled  fox, 
having  the  form  without  the  life  of  one;  or,  as  Mr.  Heath 
observes,  ^^  a  fox  draicn  over  tlie  ground  to  leave  ascent, 
and  exercise  the  hounds,  may  bo  said  to  have  no  trutli  in 
it,  because  it  deceives  the  hounds,  who  run  with  tjie  same 
eagerness  as  if  they  were  in  pursuit  of  a  real  fox." 

"u  And  as  for  womanhood,  Maid  Marian  may  be  the  deputy's 
wife  of  the  ward  to  thee. 

In  the  ancient  songs  of  Robin  Hood,  frequent  mention 
is  made  of  Maid  Marian,  who  appears  to  have  been  his 
concubine.  She  was  a  character  introduced  into  the  old 
English  morris-dances,  and  usually  personated  by  a  man 
dressed  as  a  woman.  Mr.  Douce,  in  his  interesting  re- 
marks on  TJie  Ancient  English  Morris  Dance,  says, — "  Ftil- 
staff  tells  the  hostess,  that  for  womanhood  Maid  Marian 
may  be  tlie  deputy's  wife  of  the  ward  to  her ;  meaning 
perhaps,  that  she  was  as  masculine  in  her  appearance  a^^ 
the  country  clown  who  personated  Maid  Marian ;  and  in 
Fletcher's  Monsieur  Thomas,  Dorotliea  desires  her  brother 
to  conduct  himself  with  more  gentleness  towards  his  mis- 
tress, unless  he  would  choose  to  marry  Malkyn  the  May 
lady.'''' 

""  A  comfort  of  retirement,  i.  t.  a  support  to  which  we 
may  resort. 

"5  The  quality  and  hair  of  our  attempt. 

That  is,  the  nature  and  complexion  of  it.  I/air  appears 
to  have  been  sometimes  used  to  denote  character  or  man- 
ner. We  still  say  something  is  against  the  hair,  or  against 
the  grain,  tlyit  is,  against  the  natural  tendency. 

*3  Ten  times  more  dishonourable  rugged  tlian  an  old-facea 
ancient. 

An  old-faced  ancient  is  an  old  standard  patched  to  hide 
its  dilapidations.  To  face  a  gown  is  to  trim  it.  Shakes- 
peare, however,  uses  the  word  ancient  to  imply  either  a 
standard  or  a  standard-bearer. 

"^  Daintry,  i.  e.  Daventry. 

">  To  sue  his  livery. 
"  During  the  existence  of  the  feudal  tenures."  says  Mt, 


KmQ  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


Malone,  "  on  the  death  of  any  of  the  king's  tenants,  an 
inquest  of  office,  called  inquisitw  post  mortem,  was  held, 
to  inquire  of  what  lands  he  died  seized,  who  was  his  heir, 
of  what  age  he  was,  &c. ;  and  in  those  cases  where  the 
lieir  was  a  minor,  he  became  the  ward  of  the  crown ;  the 
land  was  seized  by  its  officers,  and  continued  in  its  pos- 
Bossion,  or  that  of  the  person  to  whom  the  crown  granted 
it,  till  tlie  heir  came  of  age,  and  sued  out  his  livei-y,  or 
ovsterlemaine ;  that  is,  the  delivery  of  his  land  out  of  his 
guardian's  hands." 

88  Peace,  chewet,  peace. 

A  cheivet,  or  chuet,  is  a  noisy  chattering  bird  ;  a  pie.  Fal- 
staif's  ill-timed  jest  deserves  this  rebuke. 

" No,  good  Worcester,  no. 

We  love  our  people  well. 

There  appears  to  be  no  reason  for  the  introduction  of 
inese  negatives  into  this  sentence.  Mr.  M.  Mason  judi- 
caously  proposes  that  we  should  read — Know,  good  Wor- 
ces',er,  hnmo,  &c. 

"8 Deliver  up 


My  lord  of  Westmoreland.  i 

lie  was  "impawned  as  a  surety  for  the  safe  return"  of 
Worcester.  \ 

•»  There '«  honour  for  you ;  here  '»  no  vanity.  \ 

Sl«ra  i»  no  vain  semblance  of  honour,  but  a  rwvUty  of  it ;  [ 


though  Warburton  thinks  the  negative  is  iised  iTonicaJly 
and  that  Falstaff  means,  here  is  an  excess  of  vanity,  at 
excess  through  which  Sir  Walter  has  lost  his  life. 

'"  Turk  Gregory  never  did  such  deeds  in  arms. 

Gregory  the  Seventh,  called  Hildebrand,  a  man  who  by 
his  wonderful  energy  of  character  and  recklessness  of  prin- 
ciple, raised  hiuiself  frcn  the  humble  station  of  a  carpenter 
of  Tuscany  to  the  rank  of  Pontiff.  Fox  has  represented 
him  in  so  odious  a  light,  that  he  was  probably  popularly 
known  in  England  as  Turk  Qregoi'y,  thus  uniting  in  hin..- 
self  the  attributes  of  the  two  great  enemies  of  liberty,  th? 
Turk  and  the  Pope. 

"  O,  Harry,  thou  hast  rdbVd  me  of  my  youth. 

Shakespeare  has  here  violated  historic  truth  for  the  saka 
of  dramatic  effect ;  Hotspur  did  not  fall  by  the  hands  cf 
the  prince,  but  he  was  struck  by  an  arrow  from  an  un- 
known hand;  the  barb  entered  his  brain,  and  the  brave 
Percy  fell  dead  upon  the  field. 

''^  But  let  Tny  favours  hide  thy  mangled  face. 

We  must  suppose  that  the  prince  covers  the  faoe  of  Ifia 
noble  foe  with  his  own  scarf,  to  hide  the  ghastline»a  of 
death. 


SECOND    PART    OF 


ling  Ipnnj  tjiP  l^anrtlj. 


T^niS  play  occupies  a  period  of  about  nine  years  :  it  commences  immediately  after  the  defeat  of  the 
rebels  at  Shrewsbury  in  1403,  and  terminates  with  the  death  of  Henry  IV.  and  the  coronation  of 
)iis  son  Henry  V.  It  takes  up  the  history  precisely  where  the  first  play  left  it,  and,  in  the  language 
of  Dr.  Johnson,  the  two  parts  will  appear  to  every  reader  "to  be  so  connected,  that  the  second  is 
merely  a  sequel  to  the  first ;  to  be  two  only  because  they  are  too  long  to  be  one." 

The  opening  of  this  drama  is  remarkably  fine ;  the  various  rumours  of  the  result  of  the  battle  at 
Shrewsbury,  which  reach  the  Earl  of  Northumberland  in  his  "  worm-eaten  hold  of  ragged  stone,"  at 
Warkworth  ;  his  parental  agony  on  learning  the  death  of  his  brave  son  Hotspur,  and  the  defeat  of  his 
party,  are  vigorously  and  touchingly  drawn.  Gibber  has  transferred  several  passages  of  this  powerful 
scene  to  his  hash  of  our  poet's  tragedy  on  the  life  of  the  third  Richard.  In  Morton's  speech, 
Shakpspeare  reveals  his  knowledge  of  the  necessary  constituents  of  a  successful  revolution,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  York  having  taken  up  arms,  "  turns  insurrection  to  religion."  Superstition  has  ever  entered 
largely  into  the  conduct  of  every  successful  national  change.  But  notwithstanding  this  aid,  we  plainly 
foresee  the  defeat  of  Northumberland's  party  ;  the  want  of  capacity  and  unanimity  in  its  leaders,  and 
the  evident  hollowness  of  their  professions,  prove  them  much  too  weak  for  the  great  task  they  have 
undertaken.  The  insincerity  of  their  pretensions  was  too  glaring  to  deceive  any  except  the  most  igno- 
.•ant ;  they  had  all  assisted  in  the  deposition  of  King  Richard,  and  let  his  death  pass  unquestioned ; 
yet  they  pretend  to  avenge  his  fate  and  to  war  against  his  murderer.  Northumberland  indeed  had 
been  the  chief  persecutor  of  the  wretched  King,  and  this  pretended  compassion  for  his  fate  is  either 
rank  hypocrisy  or  self-delusion.  Time  is  the  sure  avenger  of  injustice,  and  the  powerful  noble  who 
triumphed  over  the  humiliated  monarch  is  now  bowed  down  to  the  earth  by  the  man  whom  he  him- 
self had  placed  in  the  regal  chair. 

Falstaflf  continues  his  vagaries,  and  is  not  a  whit  less  amusing  in  this  drama  than  in  the  first; 
his  interview  with  the  Lord  Chiet  Justice  bubbles  over  with  fun,  sparkles  with  wit,  and  is  unctuous 
with  humour.  Nothing  can  make  the  knight  long  serious ;  life  is  with  him  one  continued  jest.  His 
assumed  deafness,  and  his  assertion  that  he  is  young,  are  eminently  characteristic.  "  The  truth  is,  I 
am  only  old  in  judgment  and  understanding;  and  he  that  will  caper  with  me  for  a  thousand  marks,  let 
him  lend  me  the  money,  and  have  at  him."  Very  natural,  too,  is  the  description  of  age  by  the  Jus- 
tice ;  he  sees  through  Falstaflf,  has  a  just  estimate  of  his  abandoned  character,  and  yet  is  softened  by 
the  conversational  powers  of  the  fat  knight.  The  scene  of  the  arrest  of  the  latter  at  the  suit  of  the 
hostess  for  a  hundred  marks,  gives  an  excellent  instance  of  his  persuasiveness ;  but  like  Milton's 

Belial— 

All  was  false  and  hollow ;  though  his  tongue 

Dropt  manna,  and  could  make  the  worse  appear 
The  better  reason. 

He  pacifies  the  enraged  Mrs.  Quickly,  and  induces  her  to  pawn  her  plate  and  tapestries  to  add  an- 
other loan  to  what  he  already  owes  her.     He  possesses  the  chief  end  of  oratory  in  no  mean  degree, 
and  never  fails  m  winning  the  good  graces  of  those  whom  he  desires  to  please.     The  speech  of  the 
97  769 


hostess,  in  which  she  reminds  Sir  John  of  his  promise  to  marry  her,  when  he  was  sitting  in  her 
"  Dolphin-chamber,  at  the  round  table  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  upon  Wednesday  in  Whitsuvi-week,"  <fec., 
has  been  often  quoted  for  its  humour  and  natural  quaintness  of  description. 

The  wit  of  the  Prince  is  frequently  forced, — it  consists  of  rough  practical  jests ;  he  is  altogether 
deficient  of  that  spontaneous  humour  which  dwells  in  Falstafi".  His  wit  is  chiefly  derived  ftom  asso- 
ciation with  the  fat  knight;  when  he  is  with  Poins  only  he  is  perpetually  recurring  to  his  rank,  and 
condescends  to  jest.  "  What  a  disgrace  is  it  in  me  to  remember  thy  name,"  he  exclaims  to  his 
humble  companion,  who  with  the  spirit  of  a  parasite  pockets  up  the  affront.  For  the  true  display  of 
wit  there  must  be  freedom  of  speech  and  equality  of  position ;  it  never  flashes  in  fetters  or  step 
gracefully  on  stilts.  A  king  cannot  jest  with  his  courtiers,  for  his  tongue  is  bridled,  and  his  limbt* 
swathed  round  with  the  frigid  etiquette  of  royalty;  and  although  Prince  Henry  strives  to  divest 
himself  of  all  the  usual  conventionalities  of  his  rank,  and  put  on  "  the  cunning  of  a  carper,"  still  ,'i 
consciousness  of  his  position  will  peep  through  the  disguise,  and  the  wit  frequently  disappears  in  thj 
heir-apparent  to  the  throne.  He  talks  at  random,  and  banters  drawers,  and  such  poor  rogues  as  hart 
neither  wit  nor  courage  to  reply.  He  provokes  retorts  from  Falstaffj  and  answers  them  by  abuso 
and  threats  of  personal  violence.  He  would  make  the  knight  his  humble  dependent  and  jocular  pai- 
;isite ;  but  the  facetious  old  reveller  has  sufficient  address  to  place  his  companionship  with  the  Prince 
on  terms  of  equality.  As  the  death  of  his  father  approaches,  we  see  him  gradually  assuming  hi.'; 
state ;  he  becomes  less  familiar  with  his  associates ;  sometimes  he  is  sarcastic,  and  then  turning  mor- 
alist, exclaims :  "  Well,  thus  we  play  the  fool  with  the  time ;  and  the  spirits  of  the  wise  sit  in  th»i 
clouds  and  mock  us :" — a  reflection  which  is  true  enough,  but  one  that  does  not  come  gracefully 
from  his  lips.  His  final  abrupt  dismission  of  Falstaff  with  reproach  and  disgrace,  though  it  was  ex- 
pedient, was  the  more  harsh  from  the  fact  that  the  kuight  had  not  made  that  pecuniary  use  of  hiiu 
that  he  might  have  done.  Falstaff  seems  to  have  been  really  attached  to  his  royal  and  profligate  pu- 
pil, and  depraved  as  the  old  rogue  was,  he  still  possessed  so  much  of  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman,  as  re- 
strained him  from  making  a  purse  out  of  the  liberality  or  vanity  of  the  Prince.  He  appears  to  gair, 
nothing  from  the  latter  but  the  settlement  of  a  few  tavern  bills, — no  very  imperial  recompense,  evei] 
for  a  court  jester. 

Although  this  play  is  certainly  deficient  in  female  interest,  still  the  introduction  of  Lady  Percy, 
the  widow  of  the  unfortunate  Hotspur,  is  very  touching ;  her  devotion  to  the  memory  of  her  brave 
husband,  places  her  in  an  exceedingly  interesting  and  amiable  light.  The  poet  was  always  just  to 
the  character  of  woman,  and  threw  around  her  a  winning  charm  of  tenderness  and  purity  which  fas- 
cinates and  attracts  all  hearts.  Even  the  ignorant  and  degraded  Mrs.  Quickly  is  redeemed  from 
offending  by  her  generous  good-nature  and  clearness  from  vicious  intentions. 

The  third  act  introduces  the  sick  and  worn-out  King,  with  his  beautiful  apostrophe  to  sleep ;  ill- 
ness and  rebellion  keep  him  waking;  the  "  rank  diseases"  of  his  kingdom  have  infected  him,  and  his 
retrospect  of  life  is  sad  and  solemn.     If,  he  exclaims,  we  could  see  into  the  future- 

The  happiest  youth,  viewing  his  progress  through, 

What  perils  past,  what  crosses  to  ensue. 

Would  shut  the  book,  and  sit  him  down  and  die. 

The  scene  where  Prince  Henry  takes  away  the  crown  from  the  pillow  of  his  apparently  lifelesa 
fe,*Jier,  the  anguish  of  the  dying  monarch  on  this  discovery  of  what  he  deems  to  be  his  son's  anxiety 
for  his  death,  and  the  latter's  vindication  of  his  conduct,  are  in  Shakespeare's  most  powerful  style.  The 
(Sovereign  disappears  in  the  fjither,  and  we  feel  an  active  sympathy  for  this  usually  iron  and  cold- 
liearted  man.  We  see  that  his  race  is  run,  the  flame  of  life  flickers  in  the  socket,  the  chilled  blood 
Hows  languidly  from  the  heart,  and  we  are  prepared  to  hear  in  the  next  act  that  "  he  's  walked  the 
way  of  nature." 

The  shameful  treachery  of  Westmoreland  and  Prince  John  ought  not  to  pass  unnoticed ;  thi? 
act  is  witliout  parallel,  even  in  those  barbarous  days  when  people  were  accustomed  to  look  with  lead- 
en eyes  on  deeds  of  violence  and  blood.  Our  poet,  deviating  from  his  usual  mode,  utters  no  condemna- 
tion of  this  atrocious  act,  a  circumstance  which  has  brought  upon  hra  the  censure  of  the  critics ;  for 
110 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


1  I 


I 


1    ! 


I 


I    I 


the  poet  should  always  be  the  friend  of  virtue,  although  he  may  have  to  be  the  historian  of  villany. 
Mov?bray,  Hastings,  and  the  Archbishop,  are  lured  into  a  trap  by  Prince  John,  and  then  murdered 
by  the  axe  of  the  executioner.  It  is  an  historical  fact  that  Scroop  was  the  first  prelate  of  his  rani? 
that  had  been  publicly  executed  in  England.  Bishops  had  been  imprisoned,  and  secretly  starved  or 
tortured,  but  had  never  before  suffered  death  on  the  scaffold.  But  Henrv  was  stern  and  pitiless ;  re- 
bellion had  been  the  spectre  that  had  ever  haunted  him,  and  distilled  bitterness  into  his  cup  of  triumph, 
and  he  was  resolved  to  crush  it  with  an  iron  grasp.  Usurpation  is  a  gate  through  which  a  swollen 
flood  of  evils  rush  into  the  state  ;  not  only  did  it  plunge  England,  during  Heniy's  life,  into  civil  war, 
but  to  conciliate  the  clergy  and  reconcile  them  to  his  usurpation,  he  passed  the  horrible  statute  for  the 
burning  of  heretics  ;  and  in  his  reign  men  were  first  consumed  at  the  stake  in  this  country  for  exer- 
cising their  own  judgment  on  religious  subjects.  "William  Sawtre,  who  had  been  rector  of  Lynn,  was 
condemned  for  heresy,  and  the  fii-st  who  perished  in  the  flames  at  Smithfield.  This  tragedy  took 
place  in  March,  1401,  and  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  series  of  horrors,  the  bare  contemplation  of 
which  creates  sensations  of  terror  and  disgust. 

Great  variety  is  made  in   this  play  by  the  introduction   of  the  scenes   at  Justice  Shallow's,  in 
Gloucestershire,  the  lean  bragging  septuagenarian  who  talks  of  the  wildness  of  his  youth,  and  of  his         '■ 
doings  at  Clement's  Inn,  Turnbull  Street,  and  Mile-end  Green.     His  reminiscences  respecting  John  ' 

Doit  of  Staffordshire,  black  George  Bare,  Francis  Pickbone,  and  Will  Squell  the  Cotswold  man ;  "  you  ; 
had  not  four  such  swinge-bucklers  in  all  the  inns  of  court  again  ;"  and  of  Jane  Nightwork  who  was  \  ! 
a  "  bona  roba"  fifty-five  years  ago,  are  highly  natural  and  amusing.  With  what  glee  does  he  refer  '  ! 
to  his  fight  with  one  Sampson  Stockfish  behind  Gray's  Inn.  His  confusion  of  ideas  is  a  satire  on 
the  sort  of  men  who  too  often  occupied  the  seat  of  justice  in  our  poet's  time ;  with  the  same  breath 
he  laments  the  death  of  old  Double  the  archer,  and  asks  the  market  price  of  a  score  of  ewes.  And 
with  the  forgetfulness  and  mental  wandering  of  age,  he  unites  a  moral  reflection  on  the  certainty  of 
death  with  the  price  of  "  a  good  yoke  of  bullocks  at  Stamford  Fair." 

What  a  foil  is  this  garrulous  old  squire,  this  "  man  made  after  supper  of  a  cheese-paring,"  to  the 
robust  hearty  old  knight.  Falstafi'  and  Shallow !  what  ludicrous  contrasts,  the  representatives  o 
plenty  and  famine,  wit  and  senility;  but  our  merry  poet  went  further  in  his  gleanings  for  mirth,  and 
threw  cousin  Silence  into  the  scale ;  cousin  Silence  whom  it  "  well  befits  to  be  of  the  peace,"  who 
scarcely  utters  a  word  when  he  is  sober,  but  will  let  no  one  else  talk  when  he  is  drunk. 

What  a  rare  group  of  oddities,  too,  are  thrust  upon  us  in  the  recruiting  scene  ;  ragged  abortions 
of  humanity  such  as  Shakespeare  had  perhaps  sometimes  seen  at  a  fair  or  market-day  at  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  They  are  not  however  altogether  mere  caricatures,  such  as  Ben  Jonson  too  often  drew 
they  had  a  spirit  of  vitality ;  we  laugh  heartily  at  the  poor  fellows,  but  we  feel  for  them  nevertheless, 
and  wish  them  well  home  again,,  from  their  encounter  with  the  rebels.  They  are  like  some  of  the 
sketches  of  that  great  genius  of  the  pencil,  Hogarth ;  which,  though  struck  off  by  a  few  masterly 
touches,  yet  seem  to  reveal  a  whole  history. 

In  the  concluding  scene  Prince  Henry  enters  as  king,  disclaims  his  previous  follies,  confirms  in 
authority  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  who  had  committed  him  to  prison,  and  dismisses  Falstaff  with  re- 
proof and  contumely.  We  see  the  last  of  this  cheerful  votary  of  roguery  and  pleasure ;  the  un- 
looked-for ingratitude  of  his  "  royal  Hal"  breaks  his  heart ;  early  in  the  next  play  we  hear  of  his 
death;  and  the  drama  terminates  with  an  intimation  that  the  Kirg  and  his  court  will  shortly  beai 
their  "  civil  swords  and  native  fire  as  far  as  France." 

771 


PEKSONS    KEPFvESENTED. 


Kino  Henrt  the  Fourth. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  bc.  4. 

HaiNKr,  Prince  o/"  Wales,  afterwards  King  Henry 

the  Fifth. 

Appears,  Act  II.  bo.  2 ;  so.  4.    Act  IV.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  2 ; 

BC.  5. 

Thomas,  Duke  of  Clai'ence. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  bc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Prince  J  ohn  of  Lancaster,  afterwards  Duke  of 

Bedford. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  so.  5. 

Prince  Humphrey    of  Gloucester,  afterwards 
Duke  of  Gloucester. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Earl  of  Warwick,  of  the  King's  party. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Earl  of  Westmoreland,  of  the  King's  party. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  bc.  2. 

GowER,  a  Gentleman  of  the  King's  party. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Harcourt,  a  Gentleman  of  the  King's  'party. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  4. 

Lord  Chief  Justice  of  the  King's  Bench. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  2;  sc.  5. 

A  Gentleman,  aifenfimy  on  the  Lord  Chief  Justice. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2. 

Earl  of  Northumberland,  an  Enemy  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  8. 

Scroop,  Archbishop  of  Yovk. ;  an  Enemy  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

_         1_  '  }■  Enemies  to  the  King. 

Lord  Hastings,  ) 

Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Lord  Bardolph,  an  Enemy  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  I.  bc  1 ;  sc.  8. 

Sir  John  Coleville,  an  Enemy  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  3. 

T^AVERS, )  g^y^^fg  o/ Northumberland. 
Morton,  ) 

Appear,  Act  1.  sc.  1. 

Sir  John  Falstaff. 

dppenrs,  Act  I.  so.  2.    Act  II.  ac.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  2. 

Act  IV.  bo.  3.    Act  V.  BC.  1 ;  so.  8 ;  so.  6. 


Bardoi.ph. 

Appears,  Act  11.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  2.    Aal 

IV.  BC  8.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  BC  8 ;  bc  5. 

Pistol. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  so.  8 ;  sc  5. 

Page  to  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

irs.  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  m.  1 , 
BC.  8 ;  BC  5. 

POINS. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  bc.  4. 

Peto. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4. 

Shallow,  a  Country  Justice. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  so.  8 ;  so,  E. 

Silence,  also  a  Country  Justice. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Davy,  Servant  to  Shallow. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3. 

Mouldy, 

Shadow, 

Wart,         )■  Recruits. 

Feeble, 

bullcalf, 

Appear,  Act  III.  sc  2. 

^^""^^   \  Sheriff's  Officer. 
Snare,  ) 

Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

A  Porter. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1. 

Rumour. 
Appears,  before  Act  I. 

A  Dancer,  Speaker  of  the  Epilogue. 

jADy  Northumberland  and  Lady  Perot 

Appear,  Act  II.  sc  8. 

Mrs.  Quickly. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  so.  4 

Doll  Tearsheet. 
s.  Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  BO.  4. 


Lords,  and  other  Attendants ;   Officers,  Soldier*, 
Messengers,  Drawers,  Beadle,  Grooms,  dx. 

SCENE,— ENGLANa 


SECOND   PART   OF 


ling  Ifnrt}  tlje  lattrtji. 


INDUCTION. 


Warkworth.     Before  Northumberland's  Castle. 

Enter  Rumour,  painted  full  of  Tongues. 

Rum.  Open  your  ears ;  For  which  of  you  will 
stop 
The  vent  of  hearing,  when  loud  Rumour  speaks  ? 
I,  from  the  orient  to  the  drooping  west, 
Making  the  wind  my  post-horse,  still  unfold 
The  acts  commenced  on  this  ball  of  earth  : 
Upon  my  tongues  continual  slanders  ride ; 
The  which  in  every  language  1  pronounce. 
Stuffing  the  ears  of  men  with  false  reports, 
I  speak  of  peace,  while  covert  enmity, 
U  nder  the  smile  of  safety,  wounds  the  world  : 
And  who  but  Rumour,  who  but  only  I, 
Make  fearful  musters,  and  prepar'd  defence ; 
Whilst  the  big  year,  swoU'n  with  some  other  grief. 
Is  thought  with  child  by  the  stern  tyrant  war, 
A.ud  no  such  matter  ?    Rumour  is  a  pipe 
Blown  by  surmises,  jealousies,  conjectures ; 
And  of  so  easy  and  so  plain  a  stop, 
That  the  blunt  monster  with  uncounted  heads. 
The  still  discordant  wavering  multitude. 


Can  play  upon  it.     But  what  nee<»  i  thus 

My  well-known  body  to  anatomize 

Among  my  household  ?  Why  is  Rumour  here ! 

I  run  before  king  Harry's  victory ; 

Who,  in  a  bloody  field  by  Shrewsbury, 

Hath  beaten  down  young  Hotspur,  and  his  troops 

Quenching  the  flame  of  bold  rebellion 

Even  with  the  rebels'  blood.     But  what  mean  I 

To  speak  so  true  at  first  ?  my  office  is 

To  noise  abroad, — that  Harry  Monmouth  fell 

Under  the  wrath  of  noble  Hotspur's  sword  ; 

And  that  the  king  before  the  Douglas'  rage 

Stoop'd  his  anointed  head  as  low  as  death. 

This  have  I  ruraour'd  through  the  peasant  towns 

Between  that  royal  field  of  Shrewsbury 

And  this  worm-eaten  hold  of  ragged  stone. 

Where  Hotspur's  father,  old  Northumberland, 

Lies  crafty-sick :  the  posts  come  tiring  on. 

And  not  a  man  of  them  brings  other  news, 

Than  they  have  learn'd  of  me :  From  Rumour's 

tongues 
They  bring  smooth  comforts  false,   worse  than 

true  wrongs.  [Exit. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same. 


ACT   I. 


The  Porter  before  the  Gate  ;  Enter  Lord  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Who  keeps  the  gate  here,  ho  ? — Where 

is  the  earl  ? 
Port.  What  shall  I  say  you  are  ? 


Bard.  Tell  thou  the  earl, 

That  the  lord  Bardolph  doth  attend  him  here. 
Port.  His  lordship  is  walk'd  forth  into  the  or- 
chard ; 
Please  it  your  honour,  knock  but  at  the  gate, 
Ard  he  himself  will  answer. 

W8 


ACT  I. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SC&NB  U 


Writer  Northumberland. 

Bard.  Here  comes  the  earl. 

North.  What  news,  lord  Bardolph  ?  every  mi- 
nute now 
Should  be  the  father  of  some  stratagem  : 
The  times  are  wild ;  contention,  like  a  horse 
Full  of  high  feeding,  madly  hath  broke  loose, 
A  nd  bears  down  all  before  him. 

Bard.  Noble  earl, 

I  bring  you  certain  news  from  Shrewsbury. 

North.  Good,  an  heaven  will ! 

Bard.  As  good  as  heart  can  wish  : — - 

The  king  is  almost  wounded  to  the  death  ; 
And,  in  the  fortune  of  my  lord  your  son, 
Prince  Harry  s.ain  outright ;  and  both  the  Blants 
Kill'd  by  the  hand  of  Douglas  :  young  prince  John, 
And  Westmoreland,  and  Stafford,  fled  the  field ; 
And  Harry  Monmouth's  brawn,  the  hulk  sir  John, 
Is  prisoner  to  your  son :  O,  such  a  day, 
So  fought,  so  follow'd,  and  so  fairly  won, 
Came  not,  till  now,  to  dignify  the  times. 
Since  Caesar's  fortunes ! 

North.  How  is  this  deriv'd  ? 

Saw  you  the  field  ?  came  you  from  Shrewsbury  ? 

Bard.  I  spake  with  one,  my  lord,  that  came 
from  thence ; 
A  gentleman  well  bred,  and  of  good  name, 
That  freely  render'd  me  these  news  for  true. 

North.  Here  comes  my  servant,  Travers,  whom 
I  sent 
On  Tuesday  last  to  listen  after  news. 

Bard.  My  lord,  I  over-rode  him  on  the  way; 
And  he  is  furnish'd  with  no  certainties, 
More  than  he  haply  may  retail  from  me. 

Enter  Travers. 

North.  Now,  Travers,  what  good  tidings  come 
with  you  ? 

Tra.  My  lord,  sir  John  Umfrevile  turn'd  me 
back 
With  joyful  tidings  ;  and,  being  better  hors'd, 
Out-rode  me.     After  him,  came,  spurring  hard, 
A  gentleman,  almost  forspent  with  speed. 
That  stopp'd  by  me  to  breathe  his  bloodied  horse : 
He  ask'd  the  way  to  Chester ;  and  of  him 
I  did  demand,  what  news  from  Shrewsbury. 
He  told  me,  that  rebellion  had  bad  luck. 
And  that  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold : 
With  that,  he  gave  his  able  horse  the  head. 
And,  bending  forward,  struck  his  armed  heels 
Against  the  panting  sides  of  his  poor  jade 
Up  to  tlie  rowel-head:  and,  starting  so, 


He  seem'd  \u  running  to  devour  the  way, 
Staying  no  longer  question. 

North.  Ha ! Again. 

Said  he,  young  Harry  Percy's  spur  was  cold  ? 
Of  Hotspur,  coldspur  ?  that  rebellion 
Had  met  ill  luck  ? 

Bard.  My  lord,  I  '11  tell  you  what  ;— 

If  my  young  lord  your  son  have  not  the  day, 
Upon  mine  honour,  for  a  silken  point 
I  '11  give  my  barony :  never  talk  of  it. 

North.  Why  should  the  gentleman,  that  rode 
by  Travers, 
Give  then  such  instances  of  loss  ? 

Bard.  Who,  he  ? 

He  was  some  hilding  fellow,  that  had  stol'n 
The  horse  he  rode  on  ;  and,  upon  my  life. 
Spoke  at  a  venture.  Look,  here  comes  more  news. 

Enter  Morton. 

North.  Yea,  this  man's  brow,  like  to  a  litle-leaf, 
Foretels  the  nature  of  a  tragic  volume  : 
So  looks  the  strand,  whereon  the  imperious  flood 

Hath  left  a  witness'd  usurpation. 

Say,  Morton,  didst  thou  come  from  Shrewsbury  ? 

Mor.  I  ran  from  Shrewsbury,  my  noble  lord, 
Where  hateful  death  put  on  his  ugliest  mask. 
To  fright  our  party. 

North.  How  doth  my  son,  and  brother  ? 

Thou  tremblest ;  and  the  whiteness  in  thy  cheek 
Is  apter  than  thy  tongue  to  tell  thy  errand. 
Even  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless. 
So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-begone, 
Drew  Priam's  curtain  in  the  dead  of  night. 
And  would  have  told  him,  half  his  Troy  wasburn'd 
But  Priam  found  the  fire,  ere  he  his  tongue, 
And  I  my  Percy's  death,  ere  thou  report'st  it. 
This  thou  would'st  say, — Your  son  did  thus,  and 

thus; 
Your  brother,  thus  ;  so  fought  the  noble  Douglas ; 
Stopping  ray  greedy  ear  with  their  bold  deeds : 
But  in  the  end,  to  stop  mine  ear  indeed, 
Thou  hast  a  sigh  to  blow  away  this  praise, 
Ending  with — brother,  son,  and  all  are  dead. 

Mor.  Douglas  is  living,  and  your  brother,  yet : 
But,  for  my  lord  your  son 

North.  Why,  he  is  dead. 

See,  what  a  ready  tongue  suspicion  hath ! 
He,  that  but  fears  the  thing  he  would  not  know. 
Hath,  by  instmct,  knowledge  from  others'  eyes. 
That  what  he  fear'd  is  chanced.  Yet  speak,  Morton ; 
Tell  thou  thy  earl,  his  divination  lies; 
And  I  will  take  it  as  a  sweet  disgrace. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


And  make  thee  rich  for  doing  me  such  wrong. 

Mot.  You  are  too  great  to  be  by  me  gainsaid : 
Your  spirit  is  too  true,  your  fears  too  certain. 

North.  Yet,  for  all  this,  say  not  that  Percy  's 
dead. 
I  see  a  strange  confession  in  thine  eye : 
Thou  shak'st  thy  head  ;  and  hold'st  it  fear,  or  sin,' 
To  speak  a  truth.     If  he  be  slain,  say  so  : 
The  tongue  offends  not,  that  reports  his  death  : 
And  he  doth  sin,  that  doth  belie  the  dead ; 
Not  he,  which  says  the  dead  is  not  alive. 
Yet  the  first  bringer  of  unwelcome  news 
Hath  but  a  losing  oflSce ;  and  his  tongue 
Sounds  ever  after  as  a  sullen  bell, 
Reniember'd  knolling  a  departing  friend. 

Bard.  I  cannot  think,  my  lord,  your  son  is 
dead. 

Mor.  I  am  sorry,  I  should  force  you  to  believe 
That,  which  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  not  seen : 
But  these  mine  eyes  saw  him  in  bloody  state, 
Rend'ring     faint   quittance,''    wearied    and    out- 

breath'd. 
To  Harry  Monmouth ;  whose  swift  wrath  beat  down 
The  never-daunted  Percy  to  the  earth, 
From  whence  with  life  he  never  more  sprung  up. 
In  few,  his  death  (whose  spirit  lent  a  fire 
Even  to  the  dullest  peasant  in  his  camp,) 
Being  bruited  once,  took  fire  and  heat  away 
From  the  best  temper'd  courage  in  his  troops  : 
For  from  his  metal  was  his  party  steel'd  ; 
Which  once  in  him  abated,  all  the  rest 
Turn'd  on  themselves,  like  dull  and  heavy  lead. 
And  as  the  thing  that  's  heavy  in  itself. 
Upon  enforcement,  flies  with  greatest  speed  ; 
So  did  our  men,  heavy  in  Hotspur's  loss. 
Lend  to  this  weight  such  lightness  with  their  fear. 
That  arrows  fled  not  swifter  toward  their  aim, 
Than  did  our  soldiers,  aiming  at  their  safety, 
Fly  from  the  field  :  Then  was  that  noble  Worcester 
Too  soon  ta'en  prisoner :  and  that  furious  Scot. 
The  bloody  Douglas,  whose  well-labouring  sword 
Had  three  times  slain  the  appearance  of  the  king, 
'Gan  vail  his  stomach,'  and  did  grace  the  shame 
Of  those  that  turn'd  their  backs  ;  and  in  his  flight, 
Stumbling  in  fear,  vas  took.     The  sum  of  all 
Is, — that  the  king  hath  won  ;  and  hath  sent  out 
A  speedy  power,  to  encounter  you,  my  lord, 
Under  the  conduct  of  young  Lancaster, 
And  Westmoreland  :  this  is  the  news  at  full. 

North.  For  this  I  shall  have  time  enough   to 
mourn. 
In  poison  there  is  physic ;  and  these  news, 


Having  been  well,  that  would  have  made  me  sick, 
Being  sick,  have  in  sonie  measure  made  me  well : 
And  as  the  wretch,  whose  fever-weaken'd  joints. 
Like  strengthless  hinges,  buckle  under  life, 
Impatient  of  his  fit,  breaks  like  a  fire, 
Out  of  his  keeper's  arms  ;  even  so  my  limbs, 
Weaken'd  with  grief,  being  now  enrag'd  with  grief, 
Are  thric?  themselves  :  hence,  therefore,  thou  nice 

crutch  ; 
A  scaly  gauntlet  now,  with  joints  of  steel, 
Must  glove  this  hand  :  and  hence,  thou  sickly  quoif ; 
Thou  art  a  guard  too  wanton  for  the  head, 
Which  princes,  flesh'd  with  conquest,  aim  to  hit. 
Now  bind  my  brows  with  iron  ;  and  approach 
The  ragged'st  hour  that  time  and  spite  dare  bring 
To  frown  upon  the  enrag'd  Northumberland  1 
Let  heaven  kiss  earth  I  Now  let  not  nature's  hand 
Keep  the  wild  flood  confin'd  !  let  order  die, 
And  let  this  world  no  longer  be  a  stage, 
To  feed  contention  in  a  lingering  act ; 
But  let  one  spirit  of  the  first-born  Cain 
Reign  in  all  bosoms,  that,  each  heart  being  set 
On  bloody  courses,  the  rude  scene  may  end, 
And  darkness  be  the  bui'ier  of  the  dead  ! 

Tra.  This  strain'd  passion    doth   you    wrong, 
my  lord. 

Bard.    Sweet  earl,    divorce  not  wisdom   from 
your  honour. 

Mor.  The  lives  of  all  your  loving  complices. 
Lean  on  your  health  ;  the  which,  if  you  give  o'er 
To  stormy  passion,  must  perforce  decay. 
You  cast  the  event  of  war,  my  noble  lord, 
And  summ'd  the  account  of  chance,  before  you 

said, — 
Let  us  make  head.     It  was  your  presurmise, 
That  in  the  dole  of  blows  your  son  might  drop  : 
You  knew,  he  walk'd  o'er  perils,  on  an  edge, 
More  likely  to  fell  in,  than  to  get  o'er  : 
You  were  advis'd,  his  flesh  was  capable 
Of  wounds,  and  scars ;  and  that  his  forward  spirit 
Would  lift  him  where  most  trade  of  danger  rang'd ; 
Yet  did  you  say, — Go  forth  ;  and  none  of  this, 
Though  strongly  apprehended,  could  restrain 
The  stifl'-borne  action  :  What  hath  then  befallen, 
Or  what  hath  this  bold  enterprise  brought  forth, 
More  than  that  being  which  was  like  to  be  ? 

Bard.  We  all,  that  are  engaged  to  this  loss. 
Knew  that  we  ventur'd  on  such  dangerous  seas. 
That,  if  we  wrought  out  life,  't  was  ten  to  one : 
And  yet  we  ventur'd,  for  the  gain  proposed 
Chok'd  the  respect  of  likely  peril  fear'd  ; 
And,  since  we  are  o'erset,  venture  again. 

776 


ACT   I. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE  n. 


Come,  we  will  all  put  forth  ;  body  and  goods. 

Mor.  'T  is  more  than  time  ;  And,  my  most  noble 
lord, 
I  hear  for  certain,  and  do  speak  the  truth, — 
The  gentle  archbishop  of  York  is  up, 
With  well-appointed  powers ;  he  is  a  man. 
Who  with  a  double  surety  binds  his  followers. 
My  lord  your  son  had  only  but  the  corps. 
But  shadows,  and  the  shows  of  men,  to  fight : 
^or  that  same  word,  rebelliori,  did  divide 
The  action  of  their  bodies  from  their  souhi ; 
A.nd  they  did  fight  with  queasiness,  constrain'd, 
As  men  drink  potions ;  that  their  weaporis  only 
Seem'd  on  our  side,  but,  for  their  spirits  and  souls. 
This  word,  rebellion,  it  had  froze  them  wp, 
As  fish  are  in  a  pond  :  But  now  the  bishop 
Turns  insurrection  to  religion  : 
Suppos'd  sincere  and  holy  in  his  thoughts, 
He  's  follow'd  both  with  body  and  with  mind  ; 
And  doth  enlarge  his  rising  with  the  blood 
Of  fair  king  Richard,  scrap'd  from  Pomfret  stones  : 
Derives  from  heaven  his  quarrel,  and  his  cause  ; 
Tells  them,  he  doth  bestride  a  bleeding  land, 
Gasping  for  life  under  great  Bolingbroke  ; 
And  more,  and  less,  do  flock  to  follow  him. 

North.  I  knew  of  this  before ;  but,  to  speak  truth, 
This  present  grief  had  wip'd  it  from  my  mind. 
Go  in  with  me ;  and  counsel  every  man 
The  aptest  way  for  safety,  and  revenge : 
Get  posts,  and  letters,  and  make  friends  with  speed  ; 
Never  so  few,  and  never  yet  more  need.    \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— London.    A  Street. 

Enter  Sir  John  Falstaff,  with  his  Page  hearing 
his  Sword  and  Buckler. 

Fal.  Sirrah,  you  giant,  what  says  the  doctor  to 
my  water  ?^ 

Page.  He  said,  sir,  the  water  itself  was  a  good 
healthy  water  :  but,  for  the  party  that  owed  it,  he 
might  have  more  diseases  than  he  knew  for. 

Fal,  Men  of  all  sorts  take  a  pride  to  gird  at 
me :  The  brain  of  this  foolish-compounded  clay, 
man,  is  not  able  to  vent  any  thing  that  tends  to 
laughter,  more  than  I  invent,  or  is  invented  on  me  : 
I  am  not  only  witty  in  myself,  but  the  cause  that 
wit  is  in  other  men.  I  do  here  walk  before  thee, 
like  a  sow,  that  hath  overwhelmed  all  her  litter  but 
one.  If  the  prince  put  thee  into  my  service  for 
any  other  reason  than  to  set  me  oflf,  why  then  I  have 
no  judgment.  Thou  whoreson  mandrake,  thou  art 
fitter  to  be  worn  in  my  cap,  than  to  wait  at  my  heels. 
776 


I  was  never  manned  with  an  agate  till  now  :*  but  I 
will  set  you  neither  in  gold  nor  silver,  but  in  vile 
apparel,  and  send  you  back  again  to  your  master, 
for  a  jewel ;  the  juvenal,  the  prince  your  master, 
whose  chin  is  not  yet  fledged.  I  will  sooner  have 
a  beard  grow  in  the  palm  of  my  hand,  than  he  shall 
get  one  on  his  cheek ;  and  yet  he  will  not  stick  to 
say,  his  face  is  a  face-royal :  God  may  finish  it  when 
he  will,  it  is  not  a  hair  amiss  yet :  he  may  keep  it 
still  as  a  face-royal,  for  a  barber  shall  never  earn 
sixpence  out  of  it;"  and  yet  he  will  be  crowing,  as 
if  he  had  writ  man  ever  since  his  father  was  a 
bachelor.  He  may  keep  his  own  grace,  but  lie  is 
almost  out  of  mine,  I  can  assure  him. — What 
said  master  Dumbleton  about  the  satin  for  my 
short  cloak,  and  slops  ? 

Page.  He  said,  sir,  you  should  procure  him 
better  assurance  than  Bardolph  :  he  would  not  take 
his  bond  and  yours ;  he  liked  not  the  security. 

Fal.  Let  him  be  damned  like  the  glutton  !  may 
his  tongue  be  hotter  ! — A  whoreson  Achitophel  ? 
a  rascally  yea-forsooth  knave  !  to  bear  a  gentleman 
in  hand,'  and  then  stand  upon  security ! — The 
whoreson  smooth-pates  do  now  wear  nothing  but 
high  shoes,  and  bunches  of  keys  at  their  girdles ; 
and  if  a  man  is  thorough  with  them  in  honest 
taking  up,  then  they  must  stand  upon — security. 
I  had  as  lief  they  would  put  ratsbane  in  my  mouth, 
as  offier  to  stop  it  with  security.  I  looked  he 
should  have  sent  me  two-and-twenty  yards  of  satin, 
as  I  am  a  true  knight,  and  he  sends  me  security. 
Well,  he  may  sleep  in  security  ;  for  he  hath  the 
horn  of  abundance,  and  the  lightness  of  his  wife 
shines  through  it :  ard  yet  cannot  he  see,  though 
he  have  his  own  lantern  to  light  him. — Where  'a 
Bardolph  ? 

Page.  He 's  gone  into  Sraithfield,  to  buy  your 
worship  a  horse. 

Fal.  I  bought  him  in  Paul's,'  and  he  '11  buy  me 
a  horse  in  Smithfield  :  an  I  could  get  me  but  a  wife 
in  the  stews,  I  were  manned,  horsed,  and  wived. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  an  Attendant. 

Page.  Sir,  here  comes  the  nobleman  that  com- 
mitted the  prince  for  striking  him  about  BardolpL 

Fal.  Wait  close,  I  will  not  see  him. 

Ch.  Just.  What's  he  that  goes  there  ? 

Atten.  Falstafi",  an  't  please  your  lordship. 

Ch.  Just.  He  that  was  in  question  for  the  rob- 
bery ? 

Atten.  He,  my  lord  :  but  he  nath  since  done 
good  service  at  Shrewsbury ;  and,  as  I  hear,  is  now 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCBKE    II. 


going  with  some  charge  to  the  lord  John  of  Lan- 
caster. 

Ch.  Just.  What,  to  York  ?  Call  him  back  again. 

Atten.  Sir  John  Falstaff ! 

Fal.  Boy,  tell  him  I  am  deaf. 

Page.  You  must  speak  louder,  my  master  is  deaf. 

Ch.  Just.  I  am  sure  he  is,  to  the  hearing  of  any 
thing  good. — Go,  pluck  him  by  the  elbow  ;  I  must 
speak  with  him. 

Atten.  Sir  John, 

Jf^al.  What !  a  young  knave,  and  beg  !  Is  there 
not  wars  ?  is  there  not  employment  ?  Doth  not  the' 
king  lack  subjects  ?  do  not  the  rebels  need  sol- 
diers ?  Though  it  be  a  shame  to  be  on  any  side 
but  one,  it  is  worse  shame  to  beg  than  to  be  on 
the  worst  side,  were  it  worse  than  the  name  of 
rebellion  can  tell  how  to  make  it. 

Aiien.  You  mistake  me,  sir. 

Fal.  Why,  sir,  did  I  say  you  were  an  honest 
man  ?  setting  my  knighthood  and  my  soldiership 
aside,  I  had  lied  in  my  throat  if  I  had  said  so. 

Atten.  1  pray  you,  sir,  then  set  your  knighthood 
and  your  soldiership  aside ;  and  give  me  leave  to 
tell  you,  you  lie  in  your  throat,  if  you  say  I  am 
any  other  than  an  honest  man. 

Fal.  I  give  thee  leave  to  tell  me  so  !  I  lay  aside 
that  which  grows  to  me  !  If  thou  gett'st  any  leave 
of  me,  hang  me ;  if  thou  takest  leave,  thou  wert  bet- 
ter be  hanged  :    You  hunt-counter,  hence  !  avaunt ! 

Atten.  Sir,  my  lord  would  speak  with  you. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  a  word  with  you. 

Pal.  My  good  lord  ! — God  give  your  lordship 
good  time  of  day.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  lordship 
abroad  :  I  heard  say,  your  lordship  was  sick :  I 
hope,  your  lordship  goes  abroad  by  advice.  Your 
lordship,  though  not  clean  past  your  youth,  hath 
yet  some  smack  of  age  in  you,  some  relish  of  the 
saltness  of  time ;  and  I  most  humbly  beseech  your 
lordship,  to  have  a  reverend  care  of  your  health. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  I  sent  for  you  before  your 
expedition  to  Shrewsbury. 

Pal.  An  't  please  your  lordship,  I  hear  his  ma- 
jesty is  returned  with  some  discomfort  from  Wales. 

Ch.  Just.  I  talk  not  of  his  majesty : — You  would 
not  come  when  I  sent  for  you. 

Pal.  And  I  hear  moreover,  his  highness  is  fallen 
into  this  same  whoreson  apoplexy. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  heaven  mend  him!  -I  pray, 
let  me  speak  with  you. 

Pal.  This  apoplexy  is,  as  I  take  it,  a  kind  of 
tethargy,  an  't  please  your  lordship ;  a  kind  of 
sleeping  in  the  blood,  a  whoreson  tingling. 

98 


Ch.  Just.  What  tell  you  me  of  it  ?  be  it  as 
it  is. 

Pal.  It  hath  its  original  from  much  grief;  from 
study,  and  perturbation  of  the  brain  :  I  have  read 
the  cause  of  his  effects  in  Galen ;  it  is  a  kind  of 
deafness. 

Ch.  Just.  I  think,  you  are  fallen  into  the  disease ; 
for  you  hear  not  what  I  say  to  you. 

Pal.  Very  well,  my  lord,  very  well :  rather,  an  't 
please  you,  it  is  the  disease  of  not  listening,  the 
malady  of  not  marking,  that  I  am  troubled  withal. 

Ch.  Just.  To  punish  you  by  the  heels,  would 
amend  the  attention  of  your  ears  ;  and  I  care  not, 
if  I  do  become  your  physician. 

Pal.  I  am  as  poor  as  Job,  my  lord ;  but  not  so 
patient :  your  lordship  may  minister  the  potion  of 
imprisonment  to  me,  in  respect  of  poverty ;  but 
how  I  should  be  your  patient  to  follow  your  pre- 
scriptions, the  wise  may  make  some  dram  of  a 
scruple,  or,  indeed,  a  scruple  itself. 

Ch.  Just.  I  sent  for  you,  when  there  were  matters 
against  you  for  your  life,  to  come  speak  with  me. 

Pal.  As  I  was  then  advised  by  my  learned 
counsel  in  the  laws  of  this  land-service,  I  did  not 
come. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  the  truth  is,  sir  John,  you  live 
in  great  infamy. 

Pal  He  that  buckles  him  in  my  belt,  cannot 
live  in  less. 

Ch.  Just.  Your  means  are  very  slender,  and 
your  waste  is  great. 

Pal.  I  would  it  were  otherwise ;  I  Avould  my 
means  were  greater,  and  my  waist  slenderer. 

Ch.  Just.  You  have  misled  the  youthful  prince 

Pal.  The  young  prince  hath  misled  me :  I  am 
the  fellow  with  the  great  belly,  and  he  my  dog. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  I  am  loath  to  gall  a  new-healed 
wound  ;  your  day's  service  at  Shrewsbury  hath  a 
little  gilded  over  your  night's  exploit  on  Gad's-hill : 
you  may  thank  the  unquiet  time  for  your  quiet 
o'erposting  that  action. 

Pal.  My  lord? 

Ch.  Just.  But  since  all  is  well,  keep  it  so :  wake 
not  a  sleeping  wolf. 

Pal.  To  wake  a  wolf,  is  as  bad  as  to  smell  a  fox. 

Ch.  Just.  What !  you  are  as  a  candle,  th^  better 
part  burnt  out. 

Pal.  A  wassel  candle,  my  lord ;  all  tallow :  if  1 
did  say  of  wax,  my  growth  would  approve  tha 
truth. 

Ch.  Just.  There  is  not  a  white  hair  on  your 
face,  but  should  have  his  effect  of  gravity. 

Ill 


ACT   I. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE  ni. 


Fal.  His  effect  of  gravy,  gravy,  gravy. 

Ch.  Just,  You  follow  the  young  prince  up  and 
dow^n,  like  bis  ill  angel. 

Fal.  Not  so,  my  lord  ;  your  ill  angel  is  light ; 
but,  I  hope,  he  that  looks  upon  me,  will  take  me 
without  weighing  :  and  yet,  in  some  respects,  I ' 
grant,  I  cannot  go,  I  cannot  tell  :*  Virtue  is  of  so 
little  regard  in  these  costermonger  times,  that  true 
valour  is  turned  bear-herd :  Pregnancy  is  made  a 
tapster,  and  hath  his  quick  wit  wasted  in  giving 
reckonings :  all  the  other  gifts  appertinent  to  man, 
as  the  malice  of  this  age  shapes  them,  are  not 
worth  a  gooseberry.  You,  that  are  old,  consider 
not  the  capacities  of  us  that  are  young  :  you 
measure  the  heat  of  our  livers  with  the  bitterness 
of  your  galls  :  and  we  that  are  in  the  vaward  of 
our  youth,  I  must  confess,  are  wags  too. 

Ch.  Just.  Do  you  set  down  your  name  in  the 
scroll  of  youth,  that  are  written  down  old  with  all 
the  characters  of  age  ?  Have  you  not  a  moist  eye  ? 
a  dry  hand  ?  a  yellow  cheek  ?  a  white  beard  ?  a  de- 
creasing leg  ?  an  increasing  belly  ?  Is  not  your 
voice  broken  ?  your  wind  short  ?  your  chin  double  ? 
your  wit  single  ?  and  every  part  about  you  blasted 
with  antiquity  ?  and  will  you  yet  call  yourself 
young  ?     Fye,  fye,  fye,  sir  John  ! 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  was  born  about  three  of  the 
clock  in  the  afternoon,  with  a  white  head,  and  some- 
thing a  round  belly.  For  my  voice, — I  have  lost  it 
with  hollaing,  and  singing  of  anthems.  To  ap- 
prove my  youth  further,  I  will  not :  the  truth  is,  I 
am  only  old  in  judgment  and  understanding ;  and 
he  that  will  caper  with  me  for  a  thousand  marks, 
let  him  lend  me  the  money,  and  have  at  him.  For 
the  box  o'  the  ear  that  the  prince  gave  you, — he 
gave  it  like  a  rude  prince,  and  you  took  it  like  a 
sensible  lord.  I  have  checked  him  for  it ;  and  the 
young  lion  repents :  marry,  not  in  ashe^  and  sack- 
cloth ;  but  in  new  silk,  and  old  sack. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  heaven  send  the  prince  a  better 
companion  ! 

Fal.  Heaven  send  the  companion  a  better 
prince  !     I  cannot  rid  my  hands  of  him. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  the  king  hath  severed  you  and 
prince  Harry  :  I  hear,  you  are  going  with  lord 
John  of  Lancaster,  against  the  archbishop,  and 
the  earl  of  Northumberland. 

Fal.  Yea ;  I  thank  your  pretty  sweet  wit  for  it. 
But  look  you  pray,  all  you  that  kiss  my  lady  peace 
at  home,  that  our  armies  join  not  in  a  hot  day  1 
(or,  by  the  Lord,  I  take  but  two  shirts  out  with 
me,  and  I  meau  not  to  sweat  extraordinarily :  if 
778 


it  be  a  hot  day,  an  I  brandish  any  thing  but  my 
bottle,  I  would  I  might  never  spit  white  again. 
There  is  not  a  dangerous  action  can  peep  out  his 
head,  but  I  am  thrust  uj^on  it :  Well,  I  cannot 
last  ever  :  But  it  was  always  yet  the  trick  of  our 
English  nation,  if  they  have  a  good  thing,  to  make 
it  too  common.  If  you  will  needs  say,  I  am  an 
old  man,  you  should  give  me  rest.  I  would  to 
God,  my  name  were  not  so  terrible  to  the  enemy 
as  it  is.  I  were  better  to  be  eaten  to  death  with 
rust,  than  to  be  scoured  to  nothing  with  perpetua' 
motion. 

Ch.  Just.  Well,  be  honest,  be  honest ;  and  God 
bless  your  expedition ! 

Fal.  Will  your  lordship  lend  me  a  thousand 
pound,  to  ftirnish  me  forth  ? 

Ch.  Just.  Not  a  penny,  not  a  penny ;  you  are 
too  impatient  to  bear  crosses."     Fare  you  well 
Commend  me  to  my  cousin  Westmoreland. 

l^Exeunt  Ch.  Just,  and  Atten. 

Fal.  If  I  do,  fillij)  me  with  a  three-man  beetle." 
— A  man  can  no  more  separate  age  and  covetous- 
ness,  than  he  can  part  young  limbs  and  lechery  • 
but  the  gout  galls  the  one,  and  the  pox  pinches  the 
other  ;  and  so  both  the  diseases  prevent  my  curse? 
—Boy  ! 

Page.  Sir? 

Fal.  What  money  is  in  my  purse  ? 

Page.  Seven  groats  and  two-pence. 

Fal.  I  can  get  no  remedy  against  this  consump- 
tion of  the  purse :  borrowing  only  lingers  and 
lingers  it  out,  but  the  disease  is  incurable. — Go 
bear  this  letter  to  my  lord  of  Lancaster ;  this  to 
the  prince  ;  this  to  the  earl  of  Westmoreland ;  and 
this  to  old  mistress  Ursula,  whom  I  have  weekly 
sworn  to  marry  since  I  perceived  the  first  white 
hair  on  ray  chin  :  About  it;  you  know  where  to 
find  me.  [Exit  Page.]  A  pox  of  this  gout !  or,  a 
gout  of  this  pox !  for  the  one,  or  the  other,  plays 
the  rogue  with  my  great  toe.  It  is  no  matter,  if  I 
do  halt ;  I  have  the  wars  for  my  colour,  and  my 
pension  shall  seem  the  more  reasonable :  A  good 
wit  will  make  use  of  any  thing ;  I  will  turn  diseases 
to  commodity.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — York.  A  Room  in  the  Archbishop's 
Palace. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  Lords  Hast- 
ings, Mowbray,  and  Bardolph. 

Arch.  Thus  have  you  heard  our  cause,  and 
known  our  means : 


JkCT    I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCKNS   III. 


And,  my  most  noble  friends,  I  pray  you  all, 
Speak  plainly  your  opinions  of  our  hopes  : — 
And  first,  lord  marshal,  what  say  you  to  it? 

Moivb.  I  well  allow  the  occasion  of  our  arms ; 
But  gladly  would  be  better  satisfied. 
How,  in  our  means,  we  should  advance  ourselves 
To  look  with  forehead  bold  and  big  enough 
Upon  the  power  and  puissance  of  the  king. 

Hast.  Our  present  musters  grow  upon  the  file 
To  five  and  twenty  thousand  men  of  choice  ; 
And  our  supplies  live  largely  in  the  hope 
Of  great  Northumberland,  whose  bosom  burns 
With  an  incensed  fire  of  injuries. 

Bard.  The  question  then,  lord  Hastings,  standeth 
thus ; — 
Whether  our  present  five  and  twenty  thousand 
May  hold  up  head  without  Northumberland. 

Hast.  W^ith  him,  we  may. 

Bard.  Ay,  marry,  there 's  the  point; 

But  if  without  him  we  be  thought  too  feeble. 
My  judgment  is,  we  should  not  step  too  far 
Till  he  had  his  assistance  by  the  hand : 
For,  in  a  theme  so  bloody-fac'd  as  this, 
Conjecture,  expectation,  and  surmise 
Of  aids  uncertain,  should  not  be  admitted. 

Arch.  'Tis  \^ry  true,  lord  Bardolph ;  for,  indeed. 
It  was  young  Hotspur's  case  at  Shrewsbury. 

Bard.  It  was,  my  lord  ;  who  liu'd  himself  with 
hope, 
Eating  the  air  on  promise  of  supply, 
Flattering  himself  with  project  of  a  power 
Much  smaller  than  the  smallest  of  his  thoughts ; 
And  so,  with  great  imagination. 
Proper  to  madmen,  led  his  poweis  to  death. 
And,  winking,  leap'd  into  destruction. 

Hast.  But,  by  your  leave,  it  never  yet  did  hurt. 
To  lay  down  likelihoods,  and  forms  of  hope. 

Bard.  Yes,  in  this  present  quality  of  war ; — 
Indeed  the  instant  action,  (a  cause  on  foot,) 
Lives  so  in  hope,  as  in  an  early  spring 
We  see  the  appearing  buds ;  which,  to  prove  fruit, 
Hope  gives  not  so  much  warrant,  as  despair, 
That  frosts  will  bite  them.    When  we  mean  to 

build. 
We  first  survey  the  plot,  then  draw  the  model ; 
And  when  we  see  the  figure  of  the  house. 
Then  must  we  rate  the  cost  of  the  erection : 
Which  if  we  find  outweighs  ability, 
What  do  we  then,  but  draw  anew  the  model 
In  fewer  ofiices ;  or,  at  least,  desist 
lo  build  at  all  ?  Much  more,  in  this  great  work, 
(Which  is,  almost,  to  pluck  a  kingdom  down, 


And  set  another  up,)  should  we  survey 

The  plot  of  situation,  and  the  model ; 

Consent  upon  a  sure  foundation  ; 

Question  surveyors ;  know  our  own  estate, 

How  able  such  a  work  to  undergo, 

To  weigh  against  his  opposite ;  or  else. 

We  fortify  in  paper,  and  in  figures, 

Using  the  names  of  men,  instead  of  men  : 

Like  one  that  draws  the  model  of  a  house 

Beyond  his  power  to  build  it ;  who,  half  through, 

Gives  o'er,  and  leaves  his  part-created  cost 

A  naked  subject  to  the  weeping  clouds, 

And  waste  for  churlish  winter's  tyranny. 

Hast.  Grant,  that  our  hopes  (yet  likely  of  fair 
birth,) 
Should  be  still-born,  and  that  we  now  possess'd 
The  utmost  man  of  expectation  ; 
I  think,  we  are  a  body  strong  enough. 
Even  as  we  are,  to  equal  with  the  king. 

Bard.  What !  is  the  king  but  five  and  twenty 
thousand  ? 

Hast.  To  us,  no  more;  nay,  not  so  much,  lord 
Bardolph. 
For  his  divisions,  as  the  times  do  brawl. 
Are  in  three  heads  :  one  power  against  the  French 
And  one  against  Glendower  ;  perforce,  a  third 
Must  take  up  us  :  So  is  the  unfirin  king 
In  three  divided  ;  and  his  cofters  found 
With  hollow  poverty  and  emptiness. 

Arch.  That  he  should  draw  his  several  strengths 
together. 
And  come  against  us  in  full  puissance; 
Need  not  be  dreaded. 

Hast.  If  he  should  do  so. 

He  leaves  his  back  unarm'd,  the  French  and  Welsh 
Baying  him  at  the  heels  :  never  fear  that. 

Bard.  Who,  is  it  like,  should  lead  his  forces 
hither  ? 

Hast.  The  duke  of  Lancaster,  and  Westmore- 
land: 
Against  the  Welsh,  himself,  and  Harry  Monmouth : 
But  who  is  substituted  'gainst  the  French, 
I  have  no  certain  notice. 

Arch.  Let  us  on  ; 

And  publish  the  occasion  of  our  arms. 
The  commonwealth  is  sick  of  their  own  choice, 
Their  over-greedy  love  hath  surfeited  : — 
An  habitation  giddy  and  unsure 
Hath  he,  that  buildeth  on  the  vulgar  heart- 
0  thou  fond  many  !  with  what  loud  applause 
Didst  thou  beat  heaven  with  blessing  Bolingbroke, 
Before  he  was  what  thou  would'st  have  him  be  ? 

11% 


Acr  11. 


SECOND  PzVRT  OF 


8CBNK    1. 


And  being  now  trimm'd  in  thine  own  desires, 
Thou,  beastly  feeder,  art  so  full  of  him. 
That  thou  provok'st  thyself  to  cast  him  up. 
So,  so,  thou  common  dog,  didst  thou  disgorge 
Thy  glutton  bosom  of  the  royal  Richard ; 
And  now  thou  would'st  eat  thy  dead  vomit  up, 
And  howl'st  to  find  it.     What  trust  is  in  these 

times? 
They  that,  when  Richard  liv'd,  would  have  him  die, 
Are  now  become  enamour'd  on  his  grave : 
Thou,  that  threw'st  dust  upon  his  goodly  head. 


When  through  proud  London  he  came  sighing  OE 
After  the  admired  heels  of  Bolingbroke, 
Cry'st  now,  "  0  earth,  yield  us  that  king  again, 
And  take  thou  this  !"    O  thoughts  of  men  accurst ! 
Past,   and  to  come,  seem   best;  things  present, 

worst. 
Mowb.  Shall  we  go  draw  our  numbers,  and  set 

on  ? 
Hast.  We  are  time's  subjects,  and  time  bids  be 

gone.  ^Uxeutit 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— London.     A  Street. 

Enter  Hostess ;  Fang,  and  his  Boy,  with  her;  and 
Snare  following. 

Host.  Master  Fang,  have  you  entered  the  action  ? 

Fang.  It  is  entered. 

Host.  Where  is  your  yeoman  ?  Is  it  a  lusty 
yeoman  ?  will  a'  stand  to  't  ? 

Fang.  Sirrah,  where  's  Snare  ? 

Host.  O  lord,  ay :  good  master  Snare. 

Snare.  Here,  here. 

Fang.  Snare,  we  must  arrest  sir  John  FalstatF. 

Host.  Yea,  good  master  Snare;  I  have  entered 
him  and  all. 

Snare.  It  may  chance  cost  some  of  us  our  lives, 
for  he  will  stab. 

Host.  Alas  the  day!  take  heed  of  him ;  he  stabbed 
me  in  mine  own  house,  and  that  most  beastly :  in 
good  faith,  a'  cares  not  what  mischief  he  doth,  if 
his  weapon  be  out :  he  will  foin  like  any  devil ;  he 
will  spare  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child. 

Fang.  If  I  can  close  with  him,  I  care  not  for  his 
thrust. 

Host.  No,  nor  I  neither :  I  '11  be  at  your  elbow. 

Fang.  An  I  but  fist  him  once ;  an  a'  come  but 
within  my  vice ; — 

Host.  I  am  undone  by  his  going  ;  I  warrant  you, 
he's  an  infinitive  thing  upon  my  score : — Good 
master  Fang,  hold  him  sure ; — good  master  Snare, 
let  him  not  'scape.  He  comes  continuantly  to 
Pie-comer,  (saving  your  manhoods,)  to  buy  a  sad- 
dle ;  and  he 's  indited  to  dinner  to  the  Lubbar's 
Head"  in  Lumbert-street,  to  master  Smooth's  the 
'780 


silkman :  I  pray  ye,  since  my  exion  is  entered,  and 
my  case  so  openly  known  to  the  world,  let  him  be 
brought  in  to  his  answer.  A  hundred  mark  is  a 
long  score  for  a  poor  lone  woman  to  bear  :  and  I 
have  borne,  and  borne,  and  borne  ;  and  have  been 
fubbed  off",  and  fubbed  off",  and  fubbed  off",  from 
this  day  to  that  day,  that  it  is  a  shame  to  be 
thought  on.  There  is  no  honesty  in  such  dealing; 
unless  a  woman  should  be  made  an  ass,  and  a 
beast,  to  bear  every  knave's  wrong. 

Enter  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Page,  and  Bardolph. 

Yonder  he  comes  ;  and  that  arrant  malrasoy-nose 
knave,  Bardolph,  with  him.  Do  your  offices,  do 
your  offices,  master  Fang,  and  master  Snare  ;  do 
me,  do  me,  do  me  your  offices. 

Fal.  How  now  ?  whose  mare  's  dead  ?  what 's 
the  matter  ? 

Fang.  Sir  John,  I  arrest  you  at  the  suit  of  mis- 
tress Quickly. 

Fal.  Away,  varlets  ! — Draw,  Bardolph  ;  cut  me 
off"  the  villain's  head ;  throw  the  quean  in  the 
channel. 

Host.  Throw  me  in  the  channel  ?  I  '11  throw 
thee  in  the  channel.  Wilt  thou  ?  wilt  thou  ?  thou 
bastardly  rogue ! — Murder,  murder !  O  thou 
honey-suckle  villain  1  wilt  thou  kill  God's  officers, 
and  the  king's  ?  0  thou  honey -seed  rogue  !"  thou 
art  a  honey-seed;  a  man-queller,  and  a  woman- 
queller. 

Fal.  Keep  them  off,  Bardolph. 

Fang.  A  rescue  1  a  rescue,  1 

Host.  Good  people,  bring  a  rescue  or  two.— 


ACT    II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


ECENE    I. 


Thou  wo't,  wo't  thou  ?  thou  wo't,  wo't  thou  ?  do, 
do,  thou  rogue  !  do,  thou  hemp-seed ! 

Fal.  Away,  you  scullion  !  you  rampallian  !  you 
fustilarian  1  I  '11  tickle  your  catastrophe. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  attended, 

Ch.  Just.  What 's  the  matter  ?  keep  the  peace 
here,  ho ! 

Host.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me !  I  beseech 
you,  stand  to  me ! 

Ch.  Just.  How  now,  sir  John  ?  what,  are  you 
brawling  here  ? 
Doth  this  become  your  place,  your  time,  and  busi- 
ness ? 
You  should  have  been  well  on  your  way  to  York. — 
Stand  from  him,  fellow  :  Wherefore  hang'st  thou 
on  him  ? 

Host.  O  my  most  worshipful  lord,  an  't  please 
your  grace,  I  am  a  poor  widow  of  Eastcheap,  and 
he  is  arrested  at  my  suit. 

Ch.  Just.  For  what  sum  ? 

Host.  It  is  more  than  for  some,  my  lord  ;  it  is 
for  all,  all  I  have  :  he  hath  eaten  me  out  of  house 
and  home;  he  hath  put  all  my  substance  into  that 
fat  belly  of  his  : — but  I  will  have  some  of  it  out 
again,  or  I'll  ride  thee  o'  nights,  like  the  mare. 

Fal.  I  think,  I  am  as  like  to  ride  the  mare,  if  I 
have  any  vantage  of  ground  to  get  up. 

Ch.  Just.  How  comes  this,  sir  John  ?  Fie  !  what 
man  of  good  temper  would  endure  this  tempest 
of  exclamation  ? ,  Are  you  not  ashamed,  to  enforce  a 
poor  widow  to  so  rough  a  course  to  come  by  her 
own  ? 

Fal.  What  is  the  gross  sum  that  I  owe  thee  ? 

Host.  Marry,  if  thou  wert  an  honest  man,  thy- 
self, and  the  money  too.  Thou  didst  swear  to  me 
upon  a  parcel-gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin- 
chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  fire,  upon 
Wednesday  in  Whitsun-week,  when  the  prince 
broke  thy  head  foi  liking  his  father  to  a  singing- 
man  of  Windsor ,  thou  didst  swear  to  me  then, 
as  I  was  washing  thy  wound,  to  marry  me,  and 
make  me  my  lady  thy  wife.  Canst  thou  deny  it  ? 
Did  not  good  wife  Keech,  the  butcher's  wife,  come 
in  then,  and  call  me  gossip  Quickly  ?  coming  in  to 
borrow  a  mess  of  vinegar ;  telling  us,  she  had  a 
good  dish  of  prawns  ;  whereby  thou  didst  desire  to 
eat  some  ;  whereby  I  told  thee,  they  were  ill  for  a 
green  wound  ?  And  didst  thou  not,  when  she  was 
gone  down  stairs,  desire  me  to  be  no  more  so  fami- 
liarity with  such  poor  people ;  saying,  that  ere  long 
they  shoulri  call  me  madam  ?  And  didst  thou  not 


kiss  me,  and  bid  me  fetch  thee  thirty  shill'"'  g»  ? 
I  put  thee  now  to  thy  book-oath  ;  deny  it,  if  thou 
canst. 

Fal.  My  lord,  this  is  a  }»oor  mad  soul :  and  she 
says,  up  and  down  the  town,  that  her  eldest  son  ia 
like  you  :  she  hath  been  in  good  case,  and  the  truth 
is,  poverty  hath  distracted  her.  But  for  these  foolish 
officers,  I  beseech  you,  I  may  have  redress  against 
them. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  sir  John,  I  am  well  ac- 
quainted with  your  manner  of  wrenching  the  true 
cause  the  false  way.  It  is  not  a  confident  brow,  nor 
the  throng  of  words  that  come  with  such  more  than 
impudent  sauciness  from  you,  can  thrust  me  from 
a  level  consideration  ;  you  have,  as  it  appears  to 
me,  practised  upon  the  easy-yielding  spirit  of  this 
woman,  and  made  her  serve  your  uses  both  in 
purse  and  person. 

Host.  Yea,  in  troth,  my  lord. 

Ch.  Just.  Pr'ythee,  peace : — Pay  her  the  debt 
you  owe  her,  and  unpay  the  villany  you  have  done 
with  her  ;  the  one  you  may  do  with  sterling  money, 
and  the  other  with  current  repentance. 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  will  not  undergo  this  sneap'^ 
without  reply.  You  call  honourable  boldness,  im- 
pudent sauciness  :  if  a  man  will  make  court'sy,  and 
say  nothing,  he  is  virtuous  :  No,  my  lord,  my  hum- 
ble duty  remembered,  I  will  not  be  your  suitor  ;  I 
say  to  you,  I  do  desire  deliverance  from  these  offi- 
cers, being  upon  hasty  employment  in  the  king's 
aft'airs. 

Ch.  Just.  You  speak  as  having  power  to  do 
wrong ;  but  answer  in  the  eflfect  of  your  reputation,'* 
and  satisfy  the  poor  woman. 

Fal.  Come  hither,  hostess.     [Taking  her  aside. 

Enter  Gower. 

Ch.  Just.  Now,  master  Gower  :  What  news  ? 

Oow.  The  king,  my  lord,  and  Harry  prince  of 
Wales 
Are  near  at  hand  :  the  rest  the  paper  tells. 

Fal.  As  I  am  a  gentleman  ; 

Host.  Nay,  you  said  so  before. 

Fal.  As  I  am  a  gentleman ; Come,  no  more 

words  of  it. 

Host.  By  this  heavenly  ground  I  tread  on,  I 
must  be  fain  to  pawn  both  my  plate,  and  the  ta- 
pestry of  my  dining-chambers. 

Fal.  Glasses,  glasses,  is  the  only  drinking  :  and 
for  thy  walls, — a  pretty  slight  drollery,  or  the  story 
of  the  prodigal,  or  the  German  hunting  in  water- 
work,  is  worth  a  thousand  of  these  bed- hangings 

781 


ACT   IL 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE   n. 


and  these  fly-bitten  tapestries.  Let  it  be  ten  pound, 
if  thou  canst.  Come,  an  it  were  not  for  thy  hu- 
mours, there  is  not  a  better  wench  in  England- 
Go,  wash  thy  face,  and  'draw  thy  action :  Come, 
thou  must  not  be  in  this  humour  with  me  ;  dost 
not  know  me  ?  Come,  come,  I  know  thou  wast 
set  on  to  this. 

Host.  Pray  thee,  sir  John,  let  it  be  but  twenty 
nobles ;  i'  faith  I  am  loath  to  pawn  my  plate,  in 
good  earnest,  la. 

Fa.l.  Let  it  alone  ;  I  '11  make  other  shift ;  you  '11 
be  a  fool  still. 

Host.  Well,  you  shall  have  it,  though  I  pawn 
my  gown.  I  hope,  you  '11  come  to  supper :  You  'II 
oay  me  all  together  ? 

Fal.  Will  I  live?— Go,  with  her,  with  her; 
\To  Bard.]  Hook  on,  hook  on. 

Host.  Will  you  have  Doll  Tear-sheet  meet  you 
at  supper  ? 

Fal.  No  more  words  ;  let 's  have  her. 

\_Exeunt  Host.,  Bard.,  Ofl3cers,  and  Page. 

Ch.  Just.  I  have  heard  better  news. 

Fal.  What 's  the  news,  my  good  lord  ? 

Ch.  Just.  Where  lay  the  king  last  night  ? 

Oow.  At  Basingstoke,  my  lord. 

Fal.  I  hope,  my  lord,  all 's  well :  What 's  the 
news,  my  lord  ? 

Ch.  Just.  Come  all  his  forces  back  ? 

Oow.  No;  fifteen  hundred  foot,   five  hundred 
hoi'se, 
Are  march'd  up  to  my  lord  of  Lancaster, 
Against  Northumberland,  and  the  archbishop. 

Fal.  Comes  the  king  back  from  Wales,  my  no- 
ble lord  ? 

Ch.  Just.  You  shall  have  letters  of  me  presently : 
Come,  go  along  with  me,  good  master  Gowcr. 

Fal.  M3  lord! 

Ch.  Just.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Fal.  Master  Gower,  shall  I  entreat  you  with 
me  to  dinner? 

Gow.  I  must  wait  upon  my  good  lord  here  :  I 
Ihank  you,  good  sir  John. 

Ch.  Just.  Sir  John,  you  loiter  here  too  long, 
being  you  are  to  take  soldiers  up  in  counties  as 
you  go. 

Fal.  Will  you  sup  with  me,  master  Gower  ? 

Ch.  Just.  What  foolish  master  taught  you 
these  manners,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Gower,  if  they  become  mf)  not,  he 
was  a  fool  that  taught  them  me. — This  is  the 
right  fencing  grace,  my  lord  ;  tap  for  tap,  and  so 
par*  ^Hir. 

•782 


Ch.  Just.  Now  the  Lord  lighten  thee!  thou 
ai't  a  great  fool.  [^Exeunt 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Another  Stnet. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Poins. 

P.  Hen.  Tri  st  me,  I  am  exceeding  weary. 

Poins.  Is  it  come  to  that?  T  had  thought, 
weariness  durst  not  have  attached  one  of  so  higl: 
blood. 

P.  Hen.  'Faith,  it  does  me  ;  though  it  discolouis 
the  complexion  of  my  greatness  to  acknowledge  li. 
Doth  it  not  show  vilely  in  me,  to  desire  small  beer? 

Poins.  Why,  a  prince  should  not  be  so  loosely 
studied,  as  to  remember  so  weak  a  composition. 

P.  Hen.  Belike  then,  my  appetite  was  not 
princely  go.;  for,  by  my  troth,  I  do  now  remember 
the  poor  cieature,  small  beer.  But,  indeed,  these 
humble  considerations  make  me  out  of  love  with 
my  greatness.  What  a  disgrace  is  it  to  me,  to 
remember  thy  name  ?  or  to  know  thy  face  tc 
morrow  ?  or  to  take  note  how  many  pair  of  silk 
stockings  thou  hast ;  viz.  these,  and  those  that 
were  the  peach-colour'd  ones  ?  or  to  bear  the  in- 
ventory of  thy  shirts  ;  as,  one  for  superfluity,  and 
one  other  for  use? — but  that,  the  tennis-court 
keeper  knows  better  than  I ;  for  it  is  a  low  ebb 
of  linen  with  thee,  when  thou  keepest  not  racket 
there ;  as  thou  hast  not  done  a  great  while, 
because  the  rest  of  thy  low-countries  have  made 
a  shift  to  eat  up  thy  holland  :  and  God  knows, 
whether  those  that  bawl  out  the  ruins  of  thy 
linen,'"  shall  inherit  his  kingdom  :  but  the  mid- 
wives  say,  the  children  are  not  in  the  fault ;  where- 
upon the  world  increases,  and  kindreds  are  might- 
ily strengthened. 

Poins.  How  ill  it  follows,  after  you  have  labour- 
ed so  hard,  you  should  talk  so  idly  ?  Tell  me,  how 
many  good  young  princes  would  do  so,  their  fathers 
being  so  sick  as  yours  at  this  time  is  ? 

P.  Hen.  Shall  I  tell  thee  one  thing,  Poins  ? 

Poins.  Yes ;  and  let  it  be  an  excellent  good 
thing. 

P.  Hen.  It  shall  ser\  e  among  wits  of  no  higher 
breeding  than  thine. 

Poins.  Go  to ;  I  stand  the  push  of  your  one 
thing  that  you  will  tell. 

P.  Hen.  Why,  I  tell  thee, — it^  is  not  meet  that 
I  should  be  sad,  now  my  father  is  sick  :  albeit  I 
could  tell  to  thee,  (as  to  one  it  pleases  me,  for  fault 
of  a  better,  to  call  my  friend,)  I  could  be  sad,  and 
sad  indeed  too. 


ACT   11 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    11. 


Poins.  Very  hardly,  upon  such  a  subject. 

P.  Hen.  By  this  hand,  thou  think'st  me  as  far 
In  the  devil's  book,  as  thou,  and  Falstaff,  for  ob- 
duracy and  persistency  :  Let  the  end  try  the  man. 
But  I  tell  thee, — my  heart  bleeds  inwardly,  that 
my  father  is  so  sick  :  and  keeping  such  vile  com- 
pany as  thou  art,  hath  in  reason  taken  from  me 
all  ostentation  of  sorrow. 

Poins.  The  reason  ? 

P.  Hen.  What  would'st  thou  think  of  me,  if  I 
should  weep  ? 

Poins.  I  would  think  thee  a  most  princely  hy- 
pocrite. 

P.  Hen.  It  would  be  every  man's  thought :  and 
thou  art  a  blessed  fellow,  to  think  as  every  man 
thinks ;  never  a  man's  thought  in  the  world 
keeps  the  road-way  better  than  thine :  every 
man  would  think  me  an  hypocrite  indeed.  And. 
what  accites  your  most  worshipful  thought,  to 
think  so  ? 

Poins.  Why,  because  you  have  been  so  lewd, 
and  so  much  engraffed  to  FalstafF. 

P.  Hen.  And  to  thee. 

Poins.  By  this  light,  I  am  well  spoken  of,  I 
can  hear  it  with  my  own  ears :  the  worst  that  they 
can  say  of  me  is,  that  I  am  a  second  brother,  and 
that  I  am  a  proper  fellow  of  my  hands  ;  and  those 
two  things,  I  confess,  I  cannot  help.  By  the  mass, 
here  comes  Bardolph. 

P.  Hen.  And  the  boy  that  I  gave  Falstaff:  he 
had  him  from  me  christian ;  and  look,  if  the  fat 
villain  have  not  transformed  him  ape. 

Enter  Bardolph  and  Page. 

Bard.  'Save  your  graee. 

P.  Hen.  And  yours,  most  noble  Bardolph  ! 

Bard.  Come,  you  virtuous  ass,  [To  the  Page.] 
you  bashful  fool,  must  you  be  blushing  ?  where- 
fore blush  you  now  ?  What  a  maidenly-man-at- 
arms  are  you  become?  Is  it  such  a  matter,  to 
get  a  pottlepot's  maidenhead  ? 

Page.  He  called  me  even  now,  ray  lord,  through 
a  red  lattice,"  and  I  could  discern  no  part  of  his 
face  from  the  window :  at  last,  I  spied  his  eyes ; 
and,  methought,  he  had  made  two  holes  in  the  ale- 
wife's  new  petticoat,  and  peeped  through. 

P.  Hen.  Hath  not  the  boy  profited  ? 

Bard.  Awaj,  you  whoreson  upright  rabbit, 
away ! 

Page.  Away,  you  rascally  Althea's  dream, 
away  1 

P.  Hen   Instruct  us,  boy :  What  dream,  boy  ? 


Page.  Marry,  my  lord,  Althea  dreamed  she  wai> 
delivered  of  a  fire-brand  ;  and  therefore  I  call  hirr 
her  dream. 

P.  Hen.  A  crown's  worth  of  good  interprcta 
tion. — There  it  is,  boy.  [Gives  him  money, 

Poins.  0,  that  this  good  blossom  could  be  kept 
from  cankers  ! — Well,  there  is  sixpence  to  preserve 
thee. 

Bard.  And  you  do  not  make  him  be  hanged 
among  you,  the  gallows  shall  have  wrong. 

P.  Hen.  And  how  doth  thy  master,  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.  Well,  my  lord.  He  heard  of  your  grace's 
coming  to  town  ;  there  's  a  letter  for  you. 

Poins.  Delivered  with  good  respect. — And  how 
doth  the  martlemas,  your  master  ? 

Bard.  In  bodily  health,  sir. 

Poins.  Marry,  the  immortal  part  needs  a  phy- 
sician :  but  that  moves  not  him  ;  though  that  be 
sick,  it  dies  not. 

P.  Hen.  I  do  allow  this  wen  to  be  as  familiar 
with  me  as  my  dog :  and  he  holds  his  place  ;  for 
look  you,  how  he  writes. 

Poins.  [Reads^  "John  Falstaff,  knight," 

Every  man  must  know  that,  as  oft  as  he  has  oc- 
casion to  name  himself  Even  like  those  that  are 
kin  to  the  king  ;  for  they  never  prick  their  finger, 
but  they  say,  "  There  is  some  of  the  king's  blood 
spilt :  How  comes  that  ?"  says  he,  that  takes  upon 
him  not  to  conceive :  the  answer  is  as  ready  as  a 
borrower's  cap  ;  "  I  am  the  king's  poor  cousin,  sir." 

P.  Hen.  Nay,  they  will  be  kin  to  us,  or  they 
will  fetch  it  from  Japhet.     But  the  letter : — 

Poins.  "  Sir  John  Falstaff,  knight,  to  the  son 
of  the  king,  nearest  his  father,  Harry  prince  of 
Wales,  greeting." — Why,  this  is  a  certificate. 

P.  Hen.  Peace ! 

Poins.  "  I  will  imitate  the  honourable  Roman 
in  brevity  :" — he  sure  means  brevity  in  breath  ; 
short-winded. — 

"  I  commend  me  to  thee,  I  commend  thee,  and  I  leave 
thee.  Be  not  too  familiar  with  Poins ;  for  he  misuses  thy 
favours  so  much,  that  he  swears,  thou  art  to  marry  his 
sister  Nell.  Kepent  at  idle  times  as  thou  may'st,  and  so 
farewell. 

"Thine,  by  yea  and  no,  (which  is  as  much  as  to 
say,  as  thou  usest  him,)  Jack  Falstafjt,  with 
my  familiars;  John,  with  my  brothers  and 
sisters ;  and  sir  John  with  all  Europe." 

My  lord,  I  will  steep  this  letter  in  sack,  and  make 
him  eat  it. 

P.  Hen.  That 's  to  make  him  eat  twenty  of  his 
words.     But  do  you  use  me  thus,  Ned  ?  must 
marry  your  sister  ? 

788 


Acr  II. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE  m. 


Poins.  May  the  wench  have  no  worse  fortune  ! 
but  I  never  said  so.  . 

P.  Hen.  Well,  thus  we  play  the  fools  with  the 
*',me ;  and  the  spirits  of  the  wise  sit  in  the  clouds, 
and  mock  us. — Is  your  master  here  in  London  ? 

Bard.  Yes,  my  lord. 

P.  Hen.  Where  sups  he  ?  doth  the  old  boar 
feed  in  the  old  frank  ?" 

B'lrd.  At  the  old  place,  my  lord ;  in  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  What  company  ? 

Page.  Ephesians,  my  lord  ;''  of  the  old  church. 

P.  Hen.  Sup  any  women  with  him  ? 

Page.  None,  my  lord,  but  old  mistress  Quickly, 
and  mistress  Doll  Tear-sheet. 

P.  Hen.  What  pagan  may  that  be  ? 

Pane.  A  proper  gentlewoman,  sir,  and  a  kins- 
woman of  my  master's. 

P.  Hen.  Even  such  kin,  as  the  parish  heifers 
are  to  the  town  bull. — Shall  we  steal  upon  them, 
Ned,  at  supper ! 

Poins.  I  am  your  shadow,  my  lord ;  I  '11  follow 
you. 

P.  Hen.  Sirrah,  you  boy, — and  Bardolph  ; — no 
word  to  your  master,  that  I  am  yet  come  to  town  : 
There 's  for  your  silence. 

Bard.  I  have  no  tongue,  sir. 

Page.  And  for  mine,  sir, — I  will  govern  it. 

P.  Hen.  Fare  ye  well ;  go.  [Exeunt  Bard,  and 
Page,] — This  Doll  Tear-sheet  should  be  some 
road. 

Poins.  T  warrant  you,  as  common  as  the  way 
between  Saint  Alban's  and  Loudon. 

P.  Hen.  How  might  we  see  Falstaff  bestow 
himself  to-night  in  his  true  colours,  and  not  our- 
selves be  seen  ? 

Poins.  Put  on  two  leather  jerkins,  and  aprons, 
and  wait  upon  him  at  his  table  as  drawers. 

P.  Hen.  From  a  god  to  a  bull  ?  a  heavy  dc- 
Bcension  !  it  was  Jove's  case.  From  a  prince  to 
a  prentice  ?  a  low  transformation  1  that  shall 
be  mine :  for,  in  every  thing,  the  purpose  must 
weigh  with  the  folly.     Follow  me,  Ned. 

\  Exeunt. 

SCENE  IIL— Warkworth.     Before  the  Castle. 

Enter   Northumberland,   Lady   Northumber- 
land, and  Lady  Percy. 

North.    I  pray  thee,  loving  wife,  and  gentle 
daughter. 
Give  even  way  unto  my  rough  affairs  : 
Pu;  not  you  on  the  visage  of  the  times, 
184 


And  be,  like  them,  to  Percj  troublesome. 

Lady  N.  I  have  given  over,  I  will  speak  no 

more: 
Do  what  you  will ;  your  wisdom  be  your  guide. 
North.    Alas,   sweet   wife,   my  honour  is   at 

pawn ; 
And,  but  my  going,  nothing  can  redeem  it. 
Lady  P.  0,  yet,  for  God's  sake,  go  not  to  these 

wars ; 
The  time  was,  father,  that  you  broke  your  word, 
When  you  were  more  endear'd  to  it  than  now : 
When  your  own  Percy,  when  my  heart's  dear 

Harry, 
Threw  many  a  northward  look,  to  see  his  father 
Bring  up  his  powers ;  but  he  did  long  in  vain. 
Who  then  persuaded  you  to  stay  at  home  ? 
There  were  two  honours  lost;  yours,  and  your  son'g. 
For  yours, — may  heavenly  glory  brighten  it ! 
For  his, — it  struck  upon  him,  as  the  sun 
In  the  grey  vault  of  heaven  :  and,  by  his  light. 
Did  all  the  chivalry  of  England  move 
To  do  brave  acts  ;  he  was,  indeed,  the  glass 
Wherein  the  noble  youth  did  dress  themselves. 
He  had  no  legs,  that  practis'd  not  his  gait : 
And   speaking    thick,   which   nature    made   his 

blemish. 
Became  the  accents  of  the  valiant ; 
For  those  that  could  speak  low,  and  tardily. 
Would  turn  their  own  perfection  to  abuse, 
To  seem  like  him  :  So  that,  in  speech,  in  gait, 
In  diet,  in  affections  of  delight, 
In  military  rules,  humours  of  blood, 
He  was  the  mark  and  glass,  copy  and  book. 
That  fashion'd   others.     And  him, — 0  wondrous 

him  ! 
O  miracle  of  men  ! — him  did  you  leave, 
(Second  to  none,  unseconded  by  you,) 
To  look  upon  the  hideous  god  of  war 
In  disadvantage ;  to  abide  a  field, 
Where  nothing  but  the  sound  of  Hotspur's  name 
Did  seem  defensible : — so  you  left  him  : 
Never,  O  never,  do  his  ghost  the  wrong. 
To  hold  your  honour  more  precise  and  nice 
With  others,  than  with  him ;  let  them  alone ; 
The  marshal,  and  the  archbishop,  are  strong : 
Had  my  sweet  Harry  had  but  half  their  numbers, 
To-day  might  I,  hanging  on  Hotspur's  neck. 
Have  talk'd  of  Monmouth's  grave. 

North.  Beshrew  your  hearfj 

Fair  daughter !  you  do  draw  my  spirits  from  me 
With  new  lamenting  ancient  oversights. 
But  I  must  go,  and  meet  with  danger  there ; 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    IV. 


Or  it  will  seek  me  in  another  place, 
And  find  me  worse  provided. 

Lady  N.  O,  fly  to  Scotland, 

Till  that  the  nobles,  and  the  armed  commons. 
Have  of  their  puissance  made  a  little  taste. 

Lady  P.  If  they  get  ground  and  vantage  of  the 
king. 
Then  join  you  with  them,  like  a  rib  of  steel. 
To  make  strength  stronger  ;  but,  for  all  our  loves, 
First  let  them  try  themselves  :  So  did  your  son  ; 
He  was  so  suffer'd  ;  so  came  I  a  widow  ; 
And  never  shall  have  length  of  life  enough, 
To  rain  upon  remembrance  with  mine  eyes. 
That  it  may  grow  and  sprout  as  high  as  heaven. 
For  recordation  to  my  noble  husband. 

North.  Come,  come,  go  in  with  me  :  't  is  with 
my  mind. 
As  with  the  tide  swell'd  up  unto  its  height. 
That  makes  a  still-stand,  running  neither  way. 
Fain  would  I  go  to  meet  the  archbishop, 

But  many  thousand  reasons  hold  me  back : 

I  will  resolve  for  Scotland ;  there  am  I, 
Till  time  and  vantage  crave  my  company. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern,  in  Eastcheap. 

Enter  Two  Drawers. 

\st  Draw.  What  the  devil  hast  thou  brought 
there?  apple  Johns?  thou  know'st,  sir  John  can- 
not endure  an  apple-John. 

2nd  Draw.  Mb-ss,  thou  sayest  true  :  The  prince 
once  set  a  dish  of  apple-Johns  before  him,  and 
told  him,  there  were  five  more  sir  Johns  :  and, 
putting  off  his  hat,  said,  "  I  will  now  take  my 
leave  of  these  six  dry,  round,  old,  withered 
knights."  It  angered  him  to  the  heart ;  but  he 
hath  forgot  that. 

\st  Draw.  Why  then,  cover,  and  set  them 
down  :  And  see  if  thou  canst  find  out  Sneak's 
noise  f^  mistress  Tear-sheet  would  fain  hear  some 
music.  Despatch  : — The  room  where  they  sup- 
ped, is  too  hot ;  they  '11  come  in  straight. 

2nd  Draw.  Sirrah,  here  will  be  the  prince,  and 
master  Poins  anon  :  and  they  will  put  on  two  of 
our  jerkins,  and  aprons  ;  and  sir  John  must  not 
know  of  it :  Bardolph  hath  brought  word. 

\st  Draw.  By  the  mass,  here  will  be  old  utis:^' 
It  will  be  an  excellent  stratagem. 

2«fl?  Draw.  I  '11  see,  if  I  can  find  out  Sneak. 

[Exit. 

99 


Enter  Hostess  and  Doll  Tear-sheet. 

Host,  r  faith,  sweet  heart,  methinks  now  you 
are  in  an  excellent  good  temperality :  your  pulsidge 
beats  as  extraordinarily  as  heart  would  desire ;  and 
your  colour,  I  warrant  you,  is  as  red  as  any  rose : 
But,  i'  faith,  you  have  drunk  too  much  canaries ; 
and  that  's  a  marvellous  searching  wine,  and  it 
perfumes  the  blood  ere  one  can  say, — What  's 
this  ?     How  do  you  now  ? 

Dol.  Better  than  I  was.     Hem. 

Host.  Why,  that  's  well  said ;  a  good  heart  ''s 
worth  gold.     Look,  here  comes  sir  John. 

Enter  Falstaff,  singing. 

Fal.  "When  Arthur  first  in  court" — Empty 
the  Jordan. — "And  was  a  worthy  king:"  [Exit 
Drawer.]     How  now,  mistress  Doll  ? 

Host.  Sick  of  a  calm  :  yea,  good  sooth. 

Fal.  So  is  all  her  sect ;  an  they  be  once  in  a 
calm,  they  are  sick. 

Dol.  You  muddy  rascal,  is  that  all  the  comfoit 
you  give  me  ? 

Fal.  You  make  fat  rascals,  mistress  Doll. 

Dol.  I  make  them  !  gluttony  and  diseases  make 
theni ;  I  make  them  not. 

Fal.  If  the  cook  help  to  make  the  gluttony,  you 
help  to  make  the  diseases,  Doll :  we  catch  of  you. 
Doll,  we  catch  of  you  ;  grant  that,  ray  pure  virtue, 
grant  that. 

Dol.  A.J,  marry  ;  our  chains,  and  our  jewels. 

Fal.  "  Your  brooches,  pearls,  and  owches  ;" — 
for  to  serve  bravely,  is  to  come  halting  oflF,  you 
know  :  To  come  off  the  breach  with  his  pike  bent 
bravely,  and  to  surgery  bravely ;  to  venture  upon 
the  charged  chambers  bravely: 

Dol.  Hang  yourself,  you  muddy  conger,  hang 
yourself! 

Host.  By  my  troth,  this  is  the  old  fashion ;  you 
two  never  meet,  but  you  fall  to  some  discord :  you 
are  both,  in  good  troth,  as  rheumatic**  as  two  dry 
toasts :  you  cannot  one  bear  with  another's  con- 
firmities.  What  the  good-year  !  one  must  bear, 
and  that  must  be  you  :  [To  Doll.]  you  are  the 
weaker  vessel,  as  they  say,  the  emptier  vessel. 

Dol.  Can  a  weak  empty  vessel  bear  such  a  huge 
full  hogshead  ?  there  's  a  whole  merchant's  ven- 
ture of  Bordeaux  stuff  in  him ;  you  have  not  seen 
a  hulk  better  stuffed  in  the  hold. — Come,  I  '11  be 
friends  with  thee.  Jack  :  thou  art  going  to  the 
wars  ;  and  whether  I  shall  ever  see  thee  again,  or 
no,  there  is  nobody  cares. 


ACT   II. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    IV. 


I   I 


He-enter  Drawer. 

Draw.  Sir,  ancient  Pistol 's  below  and  would 
speak  with  you. 

Dol,  Hang  him,  swaggering  rasca  !  let  him 
not  come  hither :  it  is  the  foul-mouth'dst  rogue 
'.n  England. 

Jlost.  If  he  swagger,  let  him  not  come  here : 
no,  by  my  faith  ;  I  must  live  amongst  my  neigh- 
bours ;  I  '11  no  swaggerers  :  I  am  in  good  name 
and  fame  with  the  very  best : — Shut  the  door : — 
there  comes  no  swaggerers  here  :  I  have  not  lived 
all  this  while,  to  have  swaggering  now  : — shut 
the  door,  I  pray  you. 

J^al.  Dost  thou  hear,  hostess  ? — 

Host.  Pray  you,  pacify  yourself,  sir  John  ;  there 
comes  no  swaggerers  here. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear  ?  it  is  mine  ancient. 

Host.  Tilly-fally,  sir  John,  never  tell  me ;  your 
ancient  svi^aggerer  comes  not  in  my  doors.  I  was 
before  master  Tisick,  the  deputy,  the  other  day ; 
and,  as  he  said  to  me, — it  was  no  longer  ago  than 
Wednesday  last, — "  Neighbour  Quickly,"  says  he ; 
— master  Dumb,  our  minister,  was  by  then ; — 
"  Neighbour  Quickly,"  says  he,  "  receive  those 
that  are  civil ;  for,"  saith  he,  "  you  are  in  an  ill 
name  ;" — now  he  said  so,  I  can  tell  whereupon  ; 
"  for,"  says  he,  "  you  are  an  honest  woman,  and 
well  thought  on  ;  therefore  take  heed  what  guests 
you  receive :  Receive,"  says  he,  "  no  swaggering 

companions." There  comes  none  here; — you 

would  bless  you  to  hear  what  he  said  : — no,  I  '11 
no  swaggerers. 

Jf'al.  He 's  no  swaggerer,  hostess ;  a  tame  cheat- 
er, he ;  you  may  stroke  him  as  gently  as  a  puppy- 
greyhound  :  he  will  not  swagger  with  a  Barbary 
hen,  if  her  feathers  turn  back  in  any  show  of  re- 
sistance.— Call  him  up,  drawer. 

Host.  Cheater,  call  you  him  ?  I  will  bar  no 
honest  man  my  house,  nor  no  cheater :  But  I  do 
not  love  swaggering;  by  my  troth,  I  am  the 
worse,  when  one  says — swagger :  feel,  masters, 
how  I  shake ;  look  you,  I  warrant  you. 

Dol.  So  you  do,  hostess. 

Host.  Do  I  ?  yea,  in  very  truth,  do  I,  an  't  ivere 
an  aspen  leaf:  I  cannot  abide  swaggerers. 

Enter  Pistol,  Bardolph,  and  Page. 

Pist.  'Save  you,  sir  John ! 

Fal.  Welcome,  ancient  Pistol.     Here,  Pistol,  I 
rh.irge  you  with  a  cup  of  sack:  do  you  discharge 
upon  mine  hostess. 
186 


Pist.  I  will  discharge  upon  her,  sir  John,  with 
two  bullets. 

Eal.  She  is  pistol-proof,  sir ;  you  shall  hardly 
offend  her. 

Jlost.  Come,  I  '11  drink  no  proofs,  nor  no  bul- 
lets :  I  '11  drink  no  more  than  will  do  me  good,  for 
no  man's  pleasure,  I. 

Pist.  Then  to  you,  mistress  Dorothy ;  I.  will 
charge  you. 

Dol.  Charge  me?  I  scorn  you,  scurvy  compa- 
nion.    What !  you  poor,  base,  rascally,  cheating 
lack-linen  mate  !  Away,  you  mouldy  rogue,  away 
I  am  meet  for  your  master. 

Pist.  I  know  you,  mistress  Dorothy. 

Dol.  Away,  you  cut-purse  rascal !  you  filthy 
bung,  away !  by  this  wine,  I  '11  thrust  my  knife  in 
your  mouldy  chaps,  an  you  play  the  saucy  cuttle 
with  me.  Away,  you  bottle-ale  rascal !  you  bas- 
ket-hilt stale  juggler,  you  ! — Since  Avhen,  I  pray 
you,  sir  ? — What,  with  two  points  on  your  shoul- 
der ?  much  !** 

Pist.  I  will  murder  your  ruff  for  this. 

Fal.  No  more.  Pistol ;  I  would  not  have  you 
go  off  here :  discharge  yourself  of  our  company, 
Pistol. 

ffost.  No,  good  captain  Pistol ;  not  here,  sweet 
captain. 

Dol.  Captain  !  thou  abominable  damned  cheat- 
er, art  thou  not  ashamed  to  be  called — captain  ? 
If  captains  were  of  my  mind,  they  would  truncheon 
you  out,  for  taking  their  names  upon  you  before 
you  have  earned  them.  You  a  captain,  you  slave  ! 
for  what?  for  tearing  a  poor  whore's  ruff'  in  a 
bawdy-house  ? — He  a  captain  !  Hang  him,  rogue  ! 
He  lives  upon  mouldy  stewed  prunes,  and  dried 
cakes.  A  captain  1  these  villains  will  make  the 
word  captain  as  odious  as  the  word  occupy  ;^ 
which  was  an  excellent  good  word  before  it  was 
ill  sorted  :  therefore  captains  had  need  look  to  it. 

Bard.  Pray  thee,  go  down,  good  ancient. 

Fal.  Hark  thee  hither,  mistress  Doll. 

Pist.  Not  I :  tell  thee  what,  corporal  Bardolph  ; 
— I  could  tear  her : — I  '11  be  revenged  on  her. 

Page.  Pray  thee,  go  down. 

Pist.  1  '11  see  her  damned  first ; — to  Pluto's 
damned  lake,  to  the  infernal  deep,  with  Erebus  and 
tortures  vile  also.  Hold  hook  and  line,  say  I. 
Down  !  down,  dogs  !  down  faitors  ;  Have  we  not 
Hiren  here  ?*' 

Host.  Good  captain  Peesel,  be  ouiot ;  it  i**  very 
late,  i'  faith :  I  beseek  you  now,  aggravate  your 
choler. 


ACT    Ii. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE  rv. 


Pist.  These  be  good  humours,  indeed  !     Shall 
packhorses, 
And  hollow  pamper'd  jades  of  Asia, 
Which  cannot  go  but  thirty  miles  a  day, 
Compare  with  Caesare,  and  with  Cannibals,^* 
And  Trojan  Greeks  ?  nay,  rather  damn  them  with 
King  Cerberus  ;  and  let  the  welkin  roar. 
•  Shall  we  fall  foul  for  toys  ? 

Host.  By  my  troth,  captain,  these  are  very  bit- 
ter words. 

Bard.  Be  gone,  good  ancient :  this  will  grow 
to  a  brawl  anon. 

Pist.  Die  men,  like  dogs;  give  crowns  like 
pins :  Have  we  not  Hiren  here  ? 

Host.  0'  my  word,  captain,  there  's  none  such 
here.  What  the  good-year  !  do  you  think,  I  would 
deny  her  ?  for  God's  sake,  be  quiet. 

Pist.  Then,  feed,  and  be  fat,  my  fair  Calipolis  :" 
Come,  give  's  some  sack. 

Sifortuna  me  tormenta,  sperato  me  contenta. — 

Fear  we  broadsides  ?  no,  let  the  fiend  give  fire  : 

Give  me  some   sack ; — and,  sweetheart,  lie  thou 

there.  [Laying  doivn  his  sioord. 

Come  we  to  full  points  here ;  and  are  et  cetera's 

nothing  ? 

Fal.  Pistol,  I  would  be  quiet. 

Pist.  Sweet  knight,  I  kiss  thy  neif  -^  What ! 
we  have  seen  the  seven  stars. 

Dol.  Thrust  him  down  stairs  :  I  cannot  endure 
such  a  fustian  rascal. 

Pist.  Thrust  him  down  stairs  !  know  we  not 
Galloway  nags  ?"* 

Fal.  Quoit  him  down,  Bardolph,  like  a  shove- 
groat  shilling  :  nay,  if  he  do  nothing  but  speak 
nothing,  he  shall  be  nothing  here. 

Bard.  Come,  get  you  down  stairs. 

Pist.  What !  shall  we  have  incision  ?  shall  we 

imbrue? —       [^Snatching  up  his  sword. 

Then  death  rock  me  asleep,  abridge  my  doleful 

days ! 
Why  then,  let  grievous,  ghastly,  gaping  wounds 
Untwine  the  sisters  three !  Come,  Atropos,  I  say ! 

Ffost.  Here  's  goodly  stuff  toward  ! 

Fal.  Give  me  my  rapier,  boy. 

Dol.  I  pray  thee,  Jack,  I  pray  thee,  do  not  draw. 

Fal.  Get  you  down  stairs. 

[Drawing,  and  driving  Pist.  out. 

Host.  Here  's  a  goodly  tumult !  I  '11  forswear 
keeping  house,  afore  I  '11  be  in  these  ten-its  and 

trights.     So ;   murder,  I   warrant  now. Alas, 

alas !  put  up  your  naked  weapons,  put  up  yoar 
naked  weapons.  1  Exeunt  Pist.  and  Bard. 


Dol.  I  pray  thee,  Jack,  be  quiet ;  the  rasca!  is 
gone.     Ah,  you  whoreson  little  valiant  villain,  you. 

Host.  Are  you  not  hurt  i'  the  groin  ?  methought> 
he  made  a  shrewd  thrust  at  your  belly. 

Re-enter  Bardolph. 

Fal.  Have  you  turned  him  out  of  doors  ? 

Bard.  Yes,  sir.  The  rascal 's  drunk ;  you  have 
hurt  him,  sir,  in  the  shoulder. 

Fal.  A  rascal !  to  brave  me  ! 

Dol.  Ah,  you  sweet  little  rogue,  you !  Alas, 
poor  ape,  how  thou  sweat'st !  Come,  let  me  wipe 
thy  face; — come  on,  you  whoreson  chops  : — Ah, 
rogue  !  i'  faith,  I  love  thee.  Thou  art  as  valorous 
as  Hector  of  Troy,  worth  five  of  Agamemnon,  and 
ten  times  better  than  the  nine  worthies.  Ah, 
villain  ! 

Fal.  A  rascally  slave !  I  will  toss  the  rogue  in 
a  blanket. 

Dol.  Do,  if  thou  darest  for  thy  heart :  if  thou 
dost,  I  '11  canvass  thee  between  a  pair  of  sheets. 

Enter  Music. 

Page.  The  music  is  come,  sir. 

Fal.  Let  them  play  ; — Play,  sirs. — Sit  on  my 
knee,  Doll.  A  rascal  bragging  slave  !  the  rogue 
fled  from  me  like  quicksilver. 

Dol.  V  faith,  and  thou  foUowedst  him  like  a 
church.  Thou  whoreson  little  tidy  Bartholomew 
boar-pig,  when  wilt  thou  leave  fighting  o'  days, 
and  foining  o'  nights,  and  begin  to  patch  up  thine 
old  body  for  heaven  ? 

Enter  behind,  Prince  Henry  and  Poins,  disguised 
like  Drawers. 

Fal.  Peace,  good  Doll !  do  not  speak  like  a 
death's  head  :  do  not  bid  me  remember  mine  end. 

Dol.  Sirrah,  what  humour  is  the  prince  of? 

Fal.  A  good  shallow  young  fellow :  he  would 
have  made  a  good  pantler,  he  would  have  chipped 
bread  well. 

Dol.  They  say,  Poins  has  a  good  wit. 

Fal.  He  a  good  wit  ?  hang  him,  baboon !  his 
wit  is  as  thick  as  Tewksbury  mustard ;  there  is 
no  more  conceit  in  him,  than  is  in  a  mallet. 

Dol.  Why  does  the  prince  love  him  so  then  ? 

Fal.  Because  their  legs  are  both  of  a  bigness ; 
and  he  plays  at  quoits  well ;  and  eats  conger  and 
fennel ;  and  drinks  off  candles'  ends  for  flap-dra- 
gons ;  and  rides  the  wild  mare  with  the  boys  ;  and 
jumps  upon  joint-stools  ;  and  swears  with  a  good 
grace  ;  and  wears  his  boot  very  smooth,  like  unto 

187 


Z±l 


ACT   II. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    IV. 


I 


the  sign  of  tlie  leg  ;  and  breeds  no  bate  with  tell- 
ing of  discreet  stories ;  and  such  other  gambol 
faculties  he  hath,  that  show  a  weak. mind  and  an 
able  body,  for  the  which  the  prince  admits  him  : 
for  the  prince  himself  is  such  another  ;  the  weight 
of  a  hair  will  turn  the  scales  between  their  avoir- 
dupois. 

P.  Hen.  Would  not  this  nave  of  a  wheel  have 
his  ears  cut  off? 

Poins.  Let 's  beat  him  before  his  whore. 

P.  Hen.  Look,  if  the  withered  elder  hath  not 
his  poll  clawed  like  a  parrot. 

Poins.  Is  it  not  strange,  that  desire  should  so 
many  years  outlive  performance  ? 

Fal.  Kiss  me,  Doll. 

P.  Hen.  Saturn  and  Venus  this  year  in  con- 
junction 1  what  says  the  almanac  to  that  ? 

Poins.  And,  look,  whether  the  fiery  Trigon,  his 
man,  be  not  lisping  to  his  master's  old  tables  ■,'" 
his  note-book,  his  counsel-keeper. 

Fal.  Thou  dost  give  me  flattering  busses. 

Dol.  Nay,  truly  ;  I  kiss  thee  with  a  most  con- 
stant heart. 

Fal.  I  am  old,  I  am  old. 

Dol.  I  love  thee  better  than  I  love  e'er  a  scurvy 
young  boy  of  them  all. 

Fal.  What  stuff  wilt  have  a  kirtle  of  ?  I  shall 
receive  money  on  Thursday  :  thou  shalt  have  a 
cap  to-morrow.  A  merry  song,  come  :  it  grows 
late,  we  'II  to  bed.  Thou  'It  forget  me,  when  I 
am  gone. 

Dol.  By  my  troth  thou  'It  set  me  a  weeping, 
an  thou  sayest  so :  prove  that  ever  I  dress  myself 

handsome  till  thy  return. Well,  hearken  the 

end. 

Fal.  Some  sack,  Francis. 

P.  Hen.  Poins.  Anon,  anon,  sir.    [Advancing. 

Fal.  Ha  !  a  bastard  son  of  the  king's  ? — And 
art  not  thou  Poins  his  brother  ? 

P.  Hen.  Why,  thou  globe  of  sinful  continents, 
what  a  life  dost  thou  lead  ? 

Fal.  A  better  than  thou ;  I  am  a  gentleman, 
thou  art  a  drawer. 

P.  Hen.  Very  true,  sir ;  and  I  come  to  draw 
you  out  by  the  ears. 

Host.  0,  the  Lord  preserve  thy  good  gi-ace !  by 
my  troth,  welcome  to  London. — Now  the  Lord 
bless  that  sweet  face  of  thine !  0  Jesu,  are  you 
come  from  Wales  ? 

Fal.  Thou  whoreson  mad  compound  of  ma- 
jesty,— by  this  light  flesh  and  corrupt  blood,  thou 
art  welcome.  [Leaning  his  hand  upon  Dol. 

188 


Dol.  How !  you  fat  fool,  I  scorn  you. 

Poins.  My  lord,  he  will  drive  you  out  of  your 
revenge,  and  turn  all  to  a  merriment,  if  you  take 
not  the  heat. 

P.  Hen.  You  whoreson  candle-mine,  you,  how 
vilely  did  you  speak  of  me  even  now,  before  this 
honest,  virtuous,  civil  gentlewoman  ? 

Host.  'Blessing  o'  your  good  heart !  and  so  she 
is,  by  my  troth. 

Fal.  Didst  thou  hear  me  ? 

P.  Hen.  Yes ;  and  you  knew  me,  as  you  did 
when  you  ran  away  by  Gads-hill :  you  knew,  I 
was  at  your  back ;  and  spoke  it  on  purpose,  to  try 
my  patience. 

Fal,  No,  no,  no  ;  not  so ;  I  did  not  think,  thou 
wast  within  hearing. 

P.  Hen.  I  shall  drive  you  then  to  confess  the 
wilful  abuse ;  and  then  I  know  how  to  handle 
you. 

Fal.  No  abuse,  Hal,  on  mine  honour ;  no 
abuse. 

P.  Hen.  Not !  to  dispraise  me  ;  and  call  me — 
pantler,  and  bread-chipper,  and  I  know  not  what? 

Fal.  No  abuse,  Hal. 

Poins.  No  abuse ! 

Fal.  No  abuse,  Ned,  in  the  world ;  honest 
Ned,  none.  I  dispraised  him  before  the  wicked, 
that  the  wicked  might  not  fall  in  love  with  him  : 
— in  which  doing,  I  have  done  the  part  of  a  care- 
ful friend,  and  a  true  subject,  and  thy  father  is  to 
give  me  thanks  for  it.  No  abuse,  Hal ; — none, 
Ned,  none  ; — no,  boys,  none. 

P.  Hen.  See  now,  whether  pure  fear,  and  en- 
tire cowardice,  doth  not  make  thee  wrong  this 
virtuous  gentlewoman  to  close  with  us  ?  Is  she 
of  the  wicked  ?  Is  thine  hostess  here  of  the 
wicked  ?  Or  is  the  boy  of  the  wicked  ?  Or 
honest  Bardolph,  whose  zeal  burns  in  his  nose,  ol 
the  wicked  ? 

Poins.  Answer,  thou  dead  elm,  answer. 

Fal.  The  fiend  hath  pricked  down  Bardolph 
irrecoverable ;  and  his  face  is  Lucifer's  privy- 
kitchen,  where  he  doth  nothing  but  roast  malt 
worms.  For  the  boy, — there  is  a  good  angel 
about  him  ;  but  the  devil  outbids  him  too. 

P.  Hen.  For  the  women, 

Fal.  For  one  of  them, — she  is  -in  hell  already, 
and  burns,  poor  soul !  For  the  other, — I  owe  her 
money ;  and  whether  she  be  damned  (or  that,  I 
know  not. 

Host.  No,  I  warrant  you. 

Fal.  No,  I  think  thou  art  not ;  I  think,  thou 


I 


ACT    III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCBNE   I. 


art  quit  for  that :  Marry,  there  is  another  indict- 
ment upon  thee,  f^r  suffering  flesh  to  be  eaten  in 
thy  house,  contrary  to  the  law ;  for  the  which,  I 
think,  thou  wilt  howl. 

Host.  All  victuallers  do  so  :  What 's  a  joint  of 
mutton  or  two  in  a  whole  Lent  ? 

P.  Hen.  You,  gentlewoman, 

Dol.  What  says  your  grace  ? 

Fal.  His  grace  says  that  which  his  flesh  rebels 
against. 

Host.  Who  knocks  so  loud  at  door?  look  to 
the  door  there,  Francis. 

Enter  Peto. 

P.  Hen.  Peto,  how  now  ?  what  news  ? 

Peto.  The  king  your  father  is  at  Westminster ; 
And  there  are  twenty  weak  and  wearied  posts, 
Come  from  the  north  :  and,  as  I  came  along, 
I  met,  and  overtook,  a  dozen  captains, 
Bare-headed,  sweating,  knocking  at  the  taverns, 
And  asking  every  one  for  sir  John  Falstaff. 

P.  Hen.  By  heaven,  Poins,  I  feel  me  much  to 
blame. 
So  idly  to  profane  the  precious  time  ; 
When  tempest  of  commotion,  like  the  south 
Borne  with  black  vapour,  doth  begin  to  melt, 
And  drop  upon  our  bare  unarmed  heads. 
Give  me  my  sword,  and  cloak : — Falstaff,  good 
night. 
[Exeunt  P.  Hen.,  Poins,  Peto,  and  Bard. 


Fal.  Now  comes  in  the  sweetest  morsel  of  the 
night,  and  we  must  hence,  and  leave  it  unpicked. 
[Knocking  heard.']  More  knocking  at  the  door  ? 

Re-enter  Bardolph. 

How  now  ?  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Bard.  You  must  away  to  court,  sir,  presently  ; 
a  dozen  captains  stay  at  door  for  you. 

Fal.  Pay  the  musicians,  sirrah.  [To  the  Page.] 
— Farewell,  hostess  ; — farewell,  Doll. — You  see, 
my  good  wenches,  how  men  of  merit  are  sought 
after  :  the  undeserver  may  sleep,  when  the  man  of 
action  is  called  on.  Farewell,  good  wenches :  If 
I  be  not  sent  away  post,  I  will  see  you  again  ere 
I  go. 

Dol.  I  cannot  speak ; — If  my  heart  be  not 
ready  to  burst : — Well,  sweet  Jack,  have  a  care  of 
thyself. 

Fal.  Farewell,  farewell. 

[Exeunt  Fal.  and  Bard 

Host.  Well,  fare  thee  well :  I  have  known  thee 
these  twenty-nine  years,  come  peascod-time  ;  bul 
an  honester,  and  truer-hearted  man. — Well,  fare 
thee  well. 

Bard.  [  Within^  Mistress  Tear-sheet, 

Host.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Bard.  [  Within^  Bid  mistress  Tear-sheet  come 
to  my  master. 

Host.  0  run,  Doll,  run  ;  run,  good  Doll. 

[Exmnt 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry  in  his  Nightgown.,  with  a  Page. 

K.  Hen.  Go,  call  the  earls  of  Surrey  and  of 
Warwick ; 
But,  ere  they  come,  bid  them  o'er-read  these  letters. 
And  well  consider  of  them  :  Make  good  speed. 


[Eocit  Page. 
How  many  thousind  of  my  poorest  subjects 
Are  at  this  hour  asleep  ! — Sleep,  gentle  sleep. 
Nature's  soft  nurse,  how  have  I  frighted  thee. 
That  thou  no  more  wilt  weigh  my  eyelids  down, 
An<?  steep  my  senses  in  forgetfulness  ? 


Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 

Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 

And  hush'd  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slumber; 

Than  in  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great, 

Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state. 

And  luU'd  with  sounds  of  sweetest  melody  ? 

O  thou  dull  god,  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile. 

In  loathsome  beds ;  and  leav'st  the  kingly  couoh 

A  watch-case,  or  a  common  'larum  bell  ? 

Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 

Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 

In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge ; 

And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds, 

789 


ACT  in. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENK   11. 


i    I 


Who  take  the  rufBaii  billows  by  the  top, 
Curliug  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 
With  deaf  ning  clamours  in  the  slippery  clouds. 
That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes  ? 
Can'st  thou,  0  partial  sleep  !  give  thy  repose 
To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude ; 
And,  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night, 
With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 
Deny  it  to  a  king  ?     Then,  happy  low,  lie  down  ! 
Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

Enter  Warwick  and  Surrey. 

WTazv.Many  good  morrows  to  your  majesty ! 

K.  Hen.  Is  it  good  morrow,  lords  ? 

War.  'T  is  one  o'clock,  and  past. 

K.  Hen.  Why  then,  good  morrow  to  you  all, 
my  lords, 
[lave  you  read  o'er  the  letters  that  I  sent  you  ? 

War.  We  have,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  Then  you  perceive,  the  body  of  our 
kingdom 
£low  foul  it  is  ;  what  rank  diseases  grow, 
.\nd  with  what  danger,  near  the  heart  of  it. 

War.  It  is  but  as  a  body,  yet,  distemper'd  ; 
Which  to  his  former  strength  may  be  restor'd. 

With  good  advice,  and  little  medicine : 

My  lord  Northumberland  will  soon  be  cool'd. 

K.  Hen.  O  heaven  !  that  one  might  read  the 
book  of  fate ; 
And  see  the  revolution  of  the  times 
Make  mountains  level,  and  the  continent 
(Weary  of  solid  firmness,)  melt  itself 
Into  the  sea  !  and,  other  times,  to  see 
The  beachy  girdle  of  the  ocean 
Too  wide  for  Neptune's  hips ;  how  chances  mock. 
And  changes  fill  the  cup  of  alteration 
W^ith  divers  liquors  !    0,  if  this  were  seen. 
The  happiest  youth, — viewing  his  progress  through. 
What  perils  past,  what  crosses  to  ensue, — 
Would  shut  the  book,  and  sit  him  down  and  die. 
'T  is  not  ten  years  gone, 

Since  Richard,  and  Northumberland,  great  friends. 
Did  feast  together,  and,  in  two  years  after, 
Were  they  at  wars :  It  is  but  eight  years,  since 
This  Percy  was  the  man  nearest  my  soul ; 
Who  like  a  brother  toil'd  in  my  affairs. 
And  laid  his  love  and  life  under  my  foot ; 
Yea.  for  my  sake,  even  to  the  eyes  of  Richard, 
Gave  him  defiance.     But  which  of  you  was  by, 
(You,  cousin  Nevil,  as  I  may  remember,) 

{To  War. 
When  Richard, — with  his  eye  brimful  of  tears, 
190 


Then  check'd  and  rated  by  Northumberland, — • 
Did  speak  these  words,  now  prov'd  a  prophecy  ? 
"  Northumberland,  thou  ladder,  by  the  which 
My  cousin  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne ;" — 
Though  then,  heaven  knows,  I  had  no  such  intent, 
But  that  necessity  so  bow'd  the  state. 

That  I  and  greatness  were  compell'd  to  kiss : 

"  The  time  shall  come,"  thus  did  he  follow  it, 
"  The  time  will  come,  that  foul  sin,  gathering  head 
Shall  break  into  corruption  :" — so  went  on, 
ForeteUing  this  same  time's  condition. 
And  the  division  of  our  amity. 

War.  There  is  a  history  in  all  men's  lives, 
Figuring  the  nature  of  the  times  deceas'd  : 
The  which  observ'd,  a  man  may  prophesy, 
With  a  near  aim,  of  the  main  chance  of  things 
As  yet  not  come  to  life ;  which  in  their  seeds. 
And  weak  beginnings,  lie  intreasured. 
Such  things  become  the  hatch  and  brood  of  time ; 
And,  by  the  necessary  form  of  this, 
King  Richard  might  create  a  perfect  guess. 
That  great  Northumberland,  then  false  to  him. 
Would,  of  that  seed,  grow  to  a  greater  falseness ; 
Which  should  not  find  a  ground  to  root  upon, 
Unless  on  you. 

K.  Hen.         Are  these  things  then  necessities! 
Then  let  us  meet  them  like  necessities : — 
And  that  same  word  even  now  cries  out  on  us ; 
They  say,  the  bishop  and  Northumberland 
Are  fifty  thousand  strong. 

War.  It  cannot  be,  my  lord  ; 

Rumour  doth  double,  like  the  voice  and  echo. 
The  numbers  of  the  fear'd : — Please  it  your  grace, 
To  go  to  bed  ;  upon  my  life,  my  lord. 
The  powers  that  you  already  have  sent  forth, 
Shall  bring  this  prize  in  very  easily. 
To  comfort  you  the  more,  I  have  receiv'd 
A  certain  instance,  that  Glendower  is  dead.'' 
Your  majesty  hath  been  this  fortnight  ill ; 
And  these  unseason'd  hours,  perforce,  must  add 
Unto  your  sickness. 

K.  Hen.  I  will  take  your  counsel : 

And,  were  these  inward  wars  once  out  of  hand, 
We  would,  dear  lords,  unto  the  Holy  Land. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Court  heforeJ\i?,i\cQ  Shallow's  House 
in  Gloucestershire. 

Enter  Shallow,  and  Silence,  meeting  ;  Mouldy, 
Shadow,  Wart,  Feeble,  Bill  calf,  and  Ser- 
vants, behind. 
Shal.  Come  on,  come  on,  come  'on ;  give  me 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


&OENE    II. 


jour  band,  sir,  give  me  3'our  hand,  sir :  an  early 
stirrer,  by  the  rood.'*  Alid  how  doth  ray  good 
cousin  Silence? 

Sil.  Good  morrow,  good  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  And  how  doth  my  cousin,  your  bed- 
fellow ?  and  your  fairest  daughter,  and  mine,  my 
god-daughter  Ellen  ? 

Sil.  Alas,  a  black  ouzel,  cousin  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  yea  and  nay,  sir,  I  dare  say,  my  cou- 
sin William  is  become  a  good  scholar  :  He  is  at 
Oxford,  still,  is  he  not? 

Sil.  Indeed,  sir ;  to  my  cost. 

Shal.  He  must  then  to  the  inns  of  court  short- 
ly :  I  was  once  of  Clement' s-inn  ;  where,  I  think, 
they  will  talk  of  mad  Shallow  yet. 

Sil.  You  were  called — lusty  Shallow,  then, 
cousin. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  was  called  any  thing  ;  and 
I  would  have  done  any  thing,  indeed,  and  roundly 
too.  There  was  I,  and  little  John  Doit  of  StafFord- 
sliire,  and  black  George  Bare,  and  Francis  Pick- 
bone,  and  Will  Squele  a  Cotswold  man, — you  had 
not  four  such  swinge-bucklers  in  all  the  inns  of 
court  again  :  and,  I  may  say  to  you,  we  knew  where 
the  bona-robas'*  were;  and  had  the  best  of  them 
all  at  commandment.  Then  was  Jack  FalstafF, 
now  sir  John,  a  boy ;  and  page  to  Thomas  Mow- 
bray, duke  of  Norfolk. 

Sil.  This  sir  John,  cousin,  that  comes  hither 
anon  about  soldiers  ? 

Shal.  The  same  sir  John,  the  very  same.  I  saw 
him  break  Skogan's  head"  at  the  court  gate,  when 
he  was  a  crack,  not  thus  high  :  and  the  very  same 
day  did  I  fight  with  one  Sampson  Stockfish,  a  fruit- 
erer, behind  Gray's-inn.  0,  the  mad  days  that  I 
have  spent !  and  to  see  how  many  of  mine  old 
acquaintance  are  dead  ! 

Sil.  We  shall  all  follow,  cousin. 

Shal.  Certain,  't  is  certain  ;  very  sure,  very  sure : 
death,  as  the  Psalmist  saith,  is  certain  to  all  ;  all 
shall  die.  How  a  good  yoke  of  bullocks  at  Stam- 
ford feir  ? 

Sil.  Truly,  cousin,  I  was  not  there. 

Shal.  Death  is  certain. — Is  old  Double  of  your 
lown  living  yet  ? 

Sil.  Dead,  sir. 

Shal.  Dead  ! — see,  see ! — he  drew  a  good  bow ; 
— Anc  dead  ! — he  shot  a  fine  shoot : — John  of 
Gaunt  loved  him  well,  and  betted  much  money 
on  his  head.  Dead  ! — he  would  have  clapped  i' 
the  clout*'  at  twelve  score ;  and  carried  you  a 
forehand  shaft  a  fourteen  and  fourteen  and-a-half, 


that  it  would  have  done  a  man's  heart  good  to 
see. How  a  score  of  ewes  now  ? 

Sil.  Thereafter  as  they  be:  a  score  of  good 
ewes  may  be  worth  ten  pounds. 

Shal.  xind  is  old  Double  dead  ! 

Enter  Bardolph,  and  one  with  htm. 

Sil.  Here  come  two  of  sir  John  FalstafFs  men, 
as  I  think. 

Bard.  Good  morrow,  he  nest  gentlemen  :  I  be- 
seech you,  which  is  justice  Shallow  ? 

Shal.  I  am  Robert  Shallow,  sir ;  a  poor  esquire 
of  this  county,  and  one  of  the  king's  justices  of 
the  peace  :  What  is  your  good  pleasure  with  me  ? 

Bard.  My  captain,  sir,  commends  him  to  you : 
my  captain,  sir  John  Falstafi":  a  tall  gentleman, 
by  heaven,  and  a  most  gallant  leader. 

Shal.  He  greets  me  well,  sir;  I  knew  him  a 
good  backsword  man  :  How  doth  the  good  knight  ? 
may  I  ask,  how  my  lady  his  wife  doth  ? 

Bard.  Sir,  pardon ;  a  soldier  is  better  accom- 
modated, than  with  a  wife. 

Shal.  It  is  well  said,  in  faith,  sir ;  and  it  is  well 
said  indeed  too.  Better  accommodated!  —  it  is 
good  ;  yea,  indeed,  it  is  :  good  phrases  are  surely, 
and  ever  were,  very  commendable.  Accommo- 
dated ! — it  comes  from  accommodo :  very  good  ; 
a  good  phrase. 

Bard.  Pardon  me,  sir ;  I  have  heard  the  word. 
Phrase,  call  you  it  ?  By  this  gpod  day,  I  know 
not  the  phrase  :  but  I  will  maintain  the  word  with 
my  sword  to  be  a  soldier-like  word,  and  a  word 
of  exceeding  good  command.  Accommodated  . 
That  is,  when  a  man  is,  as  they  say,  accommo- 
dated :  or,  when  a  man  is, — being, — whereby, — 
he  may  be  thought  to  be  accommodated  ;  which 
is  an  excellent  thing. 

Enter  Falstaff. 

Shal.  It  is  very  just : — Look,  here  comes  good 
sir  John. — Give  me  your  good  hand,  give  me 
your  worship's  good  hand  :  By  my  troth,  you 
look  well,  and  bear  your  years  very  well :  wel- 
come, good  sir  John. 

Ful.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well,  good  master 
Robert  Shallow  : — Master  Sure-card,  as  I  think. 

Shal.  No,  sir  John  ;  it  is  my  cousin  Silence,  in 
commission  with  me. 

Fal.  Good  master  Silence,  it  well  befits  you 
should  be  of  the  peace. 

Sil.  Your  good  worship  is  welcome. 

Fal.    Fye  !   this  is  hot  weather. — Gentlemen, 

791 


ACT   III. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


have  you  provided  me  here  half  a  dozen  suflBcient 
men  ? 

Shal.  Marry,  have  we,  sir.     Will  you  sit  ? 

Jf'al.  Let  me  see  them,  I  beseech  you. 

ShaL  '  Where  's  the  roll  ?  where  's  the  roll  ? 
where  's  the  roll  ? — Let  me  see,  let  me  see.  So, 
so,  so,  so  :  Yea,  marry,  sir : — Ralph  Mouldy : — 
let  them  appear  as  I  call ;  let  them  do  so,  let  them 
do  so. Let  me  see :  Where  is  Mouldy  ? 

Moul.  Here,  an  't  please  you. 

Shal.  What  think  you,  sir  John  ?  a  good 
limbed  fellow  :  young,  strong,  and  of  good  friends. 

Fal.  Is  thy  name  Mouldy  ? 

Moul.  Yea,  an  't  please  you. 

Fal.  'T  is  the  more  time  thou  wert  used. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  most  excellent,  i'  faith  1 
things,  that  are  mouldy,  lack  use :  Very  singular 
good ! — In  faith,  well  said,  sir  John  ;  very  well 
said. 

Fal.  Prick  him.  [To  Shal. 

Moul.  I  was  pricked  well  enough  before,  an 
you  could  have  let  me  alone  :  my  old  dame  will 
be  undone  now,  for  one  to  do  her  husbandry,  and 
her  drudgery :  you  need  not  to  have  pricked  me  ; 
there  are  other  men  fitter  to  go  out  than  I. 

Fal.  Go  to ;  peace.  Mouldy,  you  shall  go. 
Mouldy,  it  is  time  you  were  spent. 

Moul.  Spent ! 

Shal.  Peace,  fellow,  peace  ;  stand  aside  :  Know 
you  where  you  are  ? — For  the  other,  sir  John  : — 
let  me  see  ; — Simon  Shadow  ! 

Fal.  Ay  marry,  let  me  have  him  to  sit  under : 
he  's  like  to  be  a  cold  soldier. 

Shal.  Where  's  Shadow  ? 

Shad.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Shadow,  whose  son  art  thou  ? 

Shad.  My  mother's  son,  sir. 

Fal.  Thy  mother's  son  !  like  enough  ;  and  thy 
father's  shadow  :  so  the  son  of  the  female  is  the 
shadow  of  the  male  :  It  is  often  so,  indeed  ;  but 
not  much  of  the  father's  substance. 

Shal.  Do  you  like  him,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Shadow  will  serve  for  summer, — prick 
him  ; — for  we  have  a  number  of  shadows  to  fill 
U])  the  muster-book. 

Shal.  Thomas  Wart. 

Fal.  Where  's  he  ? 

Wart.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  Is  thy  name  Wart  ? 

Wart.  Yea,  sir. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  very  ragged  wart. 

Sfial.  Shall  I  prick  him,  sir  John  ? 
%9i 


Fal.  It  were  superfluous  ;  for  his  apparel  is 
built  upon  his  back,  and  the  whole  frame  stands 
upon  pins  :  prick  him  no  more. 

Shal.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! — you  can  do  it,  sir ;  you  can 
do  it :  I  commend  you  well. — Francis  Feeble  '. 

Fee.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  What  trade  art  thou,  Feeble  ? 

Fee.  A  woman's  tailor,  sir. 

Shal.  Shall  I  prick  him,  sir  ? 

Fal,    You  may  :   but  if  he  had  been  a  man 
tailor,  he  would  have   pricked   you. — Wilt  thou 
make  as  many  holes  in  an  enemy's  battle,  as  thou 
hast  done  in  a  woman's  petticoat  ? 

Fee.  I  will  do  my  good  will,  sir;  you  can  have 
no  more. 

Fal.  Well  said,  good  woman's  tailor !  well  said, 
courageous  Feeble  1  Thou  wilt  be  as  valiant  as  the 
wrathful  dove,  or  most   magnanimous   mouse. — 
Prick  the  woman's   tailor  well,  master  Shallow 
deep,  master  Shallow. 

Fee.  I  would.  Wart  might  have  gone,  sir. 

Fal.  I  would,  thou  wert  a  man's  tailor;  tha 
thou  might'st  mend  him,  and  make  him  fit  to  go. 
I  cannot  put  him  to  a  private  soldier,  that  is  the 
leader  of  so  many  thousands :  Let  that  sufiice. 
most  forcible  Feeble. 

Fee.  It  shall  suffice,  sir. 

Fal.  I  am  bound  to  thee,  reverend  Feeble. — 
Who  is  next  ? 

Shal.  Peter  Bull-calf  of  the  green  ! 

Fal.  Yea,  marry,  let  us  see  Bull-calf. 

Bull.  Here,  sir. 

Fal.  'Fore  God,  a  likely  fellow  ! — Come,  prick 
me  Bull-calf  till  he  roar  again. 

Bull.  0  lord  !  good  my  lord  captain, — 

Fal.  What,  dost  thou  roar  before  thou  art 
pricked  ? 

Bull.  O  lord,  sir  !  I  am  a  diseased  man. 

Fal.  What  disease  hast  thou  ? 

Bull.  A  whoreson  cold,  sir ;  a  cough,  sir ;  which 
I  caught  with  ringing  in  the  king's  afiairs,  upon 
his  coronation  day,  sir. 

Fal.  Come,  thou  shalt  go  to  the  wars  in  a 
gown ;  we  will  have  away  thy  cold ;  and  I  will 
take  such  order,  that  thy  friends  shall  ring  for 
thee. — Is  here  all  ? 

Shal.  Here  is  two  more  called  than  your  num- 
ber ;  you  must  have  but  four  here,  sir ; — and  so, 
I  pray  you,  go  in  with  me  to  dinner. 

Fal.  Come,  I  will  go  drink  wi'h  you,  but  I  can- 
not tarry  dinner.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  in  good 
troth,  master  Shallow. 


ACT   III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    II. 


Shal.  0,  sir  John,  do  you  remember  since  we 
lay  all  night  in  the  windmill  in  Saint  George's 
Belds  ? 

Fal.  No  more  of  that,  good  master  Shallow,  no 
more  of  that. 

Shal.  Ha,  it  was  a  merry  night.  And  is  Jane 
Night-work  alive  ? 

Fal.  She  lives,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  She  never  could  away  with  me. 

Fal.  Never,  never :  she  would  always  say,  she 
could  not  abide  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  could  anger  her  to  the 
heart.  She  was  then  a  bona-roba.  Doth  she  hold 
her  own  well  ? 

Fal.  Old,  old,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Nay,  she  must  be  old :  she  cannot  choose 
but  be  old ;  certain,  she  's  old ;  and  had  Robin 
Night-work  by  old  Night-work,  before  I  came  to 
Clement's-inn. 

Sil.  That  's  fifty-five  year  ago. 

Shal.  Ha,  cousin  Silence,  that  thou  hadst  seen 
that  that  this  knight  and  I  have  seen  ! — Ha,  sir 
John,  said  I  well  ? 

Fal.  We  have  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight, 
master  Shallow. 

Shal.  That  we  have,  that  we  have,  that  we 
have;  in  faith,  sir  John,  we  have;  our  watch- 
word was,  "  Hem,  boys  !" — Come,  let 's  to  din- 
ner ;  come,  let 's  to  dinner : — 0,the  days  that  we 
have  seen  ! — Come,  come. 

[^Exeunt  Fal.,  Shal.,  and  Sil. 

Bull.  Good  master  corporate  Bardolph,  stand 
my  friend  ;  and  here  is  four  Harry  ten  shillings  in 
French  crowns  for  you.  In  very  truth,  sir,  I  had 
as  lief  be  hanged,  sir,  as  go :  and  yet,  for  mine 
own  part,  sir,  I  do  not  care ;  but,  rather,  because 
I  am  unwilling,  and,  for  mine  own  part,  have  a 
desire  to  stay  with  my  friends ;  else,  sir,  I  did  not 
care,  for  mine  own  part,  so  much. 

Bard.  Go  to ;  stand  aside. 

Moul.  And  good  master  corporal  captain,  for 
my  old  dame's  sake,  stand  my  friend  :  she  has  no- 
body to  do  anything  about  her,  when  I  am  gone ; 
and  she  is  old,  and  cannot  help  herself :  you  shall 
have  forty,  sir. 

Bard.  Go  to  ;  stand  aside. 

Fee.  By  my  troth  I  care  not ; — a  man  can  die 
but  once ; — we  owe  God  a  death ; — I  '11  ne'er 
bear  a  base  mind  : — an  't  be  ray  destiny,  so  ;  an 't 
be  not,  so :  No  man 's  too  good  to  serve  his  prince ; 
and,  let  it  go  which  way  it  will,  he  that  dies  this 
year,  is  quit  for  the  next. 

100 


Bard.  Well  said  ;  thou  'rt  a  good  fellow. 
Fee.  'Faith,  I  '11  bear  no  base  mind. 

Re-enter  Falstaff,  and  Justices. 

Fal.  Come,  sir,  which  men  shall  I  have  ? 

Shal.  Four,  of  which  you  please. 

Bard.  Sir,  a  word  with  you  : — I  have  three 
pound  to  free  Mouldy  and  Bull-calf. 

Fal.  Go  to ;  well. 

Shal.  Come,  sir  John,  which  four  will  you  have ! 

Fal.  Do  you  choose  for  me. 

Shal.  Marry  then, — Mouldy,  Bull-calf,  Feeble, 
and  Shadow. 

Fal.  Mouldy,  and  Bull-calf: — For  you.  Mouldy, 
stay  at  home  still ;  you  are  past  service  : — and, 
for  your  part,  Bull-calf, — grow  till  you  come  unto 
it ;  I  will  none  of  you. 

Shal.  Sir  John,  sir  John,  do  not  yourseJf 
wrong ;  they  are  your  likeliest  men,  and  I  would 
have  you  served  with  the  best. 

Fal.  Will  you  tell  me,  master  Shallow,  how  to 
choose  a  man  ?  Care  I  for  the  limb,  the  thewes, 
the  stature,  bulk,  and  big  assemblance  of  a  man  ! 
Give  me  the  spirit,  master  Shallow. — Here  's 
Wart ; — you  see  what  a  ragged  appearance  it  is  ; 
he  shall  charge  you,  and  discharge  you,  with  the 
motion  of  a  pewterer's  hammer ;  come  off',  and 
on,  swifter  than  he  that  gibbets-on  the  brewer's 
bucket.  And  this  same  half-faced  fellow.  Shadow, 
— give  me  this  man ;  he  presents  no  mark  to  the 
enemy  ;  the  foeman  may  with  as  great  aim  level 
at  the  edge  of  a  penknife :  And,  for  a  retreat, 
— how  swiftly  will  this  Feeble,  the  woman's  tailor, 
run  off?  O,  give  me  the  spare  men,  and  spare 
me  the  great  ones. — Put  me  a  caliver'^  into  Wart's 
hand,  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Hold,  Wart,  traverse;  thus,  thus,  thus. 

Fal.  Come,  manage  me  your  caliver.  So  :— 
very  well : — go  to : — very  good : — exceeding  good. 
0,  give  me  always  a  little,  lean,  old,  chopped, 
bald  shot. — Well  said,  i'  faith,  Wart ;  thou  'rt  a 
good  scab  :  hold,  there 's  a  tester  for  thee. 

Shal.  He  is  not  his  craft's  master,  he  doth  not 
do  it  right.  I  remember  at  Mile-end  green,  (when 
I  lay  at  Clement's-inn — I  was  then  sir  Dagonet  in 
Arthur's  show,)"  there  was  a  little  quiver  fellow, 
and  'a  would  manage  you  his  piece  thus ;  and  'a 
would  about,  and  about,  and  come  you  in,  and 
come  you  in :  "  rah,  tab,  tab,"  would  'a  say  ; 
"  bounce,"  would  'a  say ;  and  away  again  would 
'a  go,  and  again  would  'a  come : — I  shall  neve> 
see  such  a  fellow. 

708 


ACT    IV. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    ». 


Fal.  These  fellows  will  do  well,  master  Shallow. 
— God  keep  you,  master  Silence ;  I  will  not  use 
many  words  with  you  : — Fare  you  well,  gentlemen 
both  :  I  thank  you :  I  must  a  dozen  mile  to-night. 
— Bardolph,  give  the  soldiers  coats. 

Shal.  Sir  John,  heaven  bless  you,  and  prosper 
youi-  affairs  and  send  us  peace  !  As  you  return, 
visit  my  house ;  let  our  old  acquaintance  be  re- 
newed :  peradventure,  I  will  with  you  to  the  court. 

Fal.  I  would  you  would,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Go  to ;  I  have  spoke,  at  a  word.  Fare 
you  well.  [IJxeunt  Shal.  and  Sil. 

Fal.  Fare  you  well,  gentle  gentlemen.  On, 
Bardolph ;  lead  the  men  away.  [^Exeunt  Bar- 
dolph, Recruits,  c&c]  As  I  return,  I  will  fetch 
off  these  justices :  I  do  see  the  bottom  of  justice 
Shallow.  Lord,  Lord,  how  subject  we  old  men  are 
to  this  vice  of  lying !  This  same  starved  justice 
hath  done  nothing  but  prate  to  me  of  the  wild- 
ness  of  his  youth,  and  the  feats  he  hath  done 
about  Turnbull-street  f*  and  every  third  word  a 
lie,  duer  paid  to  the  hearer  than  the  Turk's  tribute. 
I  do  remember  him  at  Clement's-inn,  like  a  man 
made  after  supper  of  a  cheese-paring :  when  he 
was  naked,  he  was,  for  all  the  world,  like  a  forked 


radish,  with  a  head  fantastically  carved  upon  il 
with  a  knife :  he  was  so  forlorn,  that  his  dimen- 
sions to  any  thick  sight  were  invisible  ;  he  was 
the  very  Genius  of  famine ;  yet  lecherous  as  a 
monkey,  and  the  vs^hores  called  him — mandrake: 
he  came  ever  in  the  rear- ward  of  the  fashion  ;  and 
sung  those  tunes  to  the  over-scutched  huswives^* 
that  he  heai'd  the  carmen  whistle,  and  .sware — 
they  were  his  fancies,  or  his  good-nights.**  And 
now  is  this  Vice's  dagger  become  a  squire ;  and 
talks  as  familiarly  of  John  of  Gaunt,  as  if  he  had 
been  sworn  brother  to  him  :  and  I  '11  be  sworn  he 
never  saw  him  but  once  in  the  Tilt-yard  ;  and 
then  he  burst  his  head,  for  crowding  among  the 
marshal's  men.  I  saw  it ;  and  told  John  of  Gaunt, 
he  beat  his  own  name  :  for  you  might  have  truss'd 
him,  and  all  his  apparel,  into  an  eel-skin :  the 
case  of  a  treble  hautboy  was  a  mansion  for  him, 
a  court ;  and  now  has  he  lands  and  beeves.  Well ; 
I  will  be  acquainted  with  him,  if  I  return  :  and 
it  shall  go  hard,  but  I  will  make  him  a  philoso- 
pher's two  stones  to  me :  If  the  young  dace  be  a 
bait  for  the  old  pike,  I  see  no  reason,  in  the  law 
of  nature,  but  I  may  snap  at  him.  Let  time 
shape,  and  there  an  end.  \Fxit. 


ACT   lY. 


SCENE  I.— ^  Forest  in  Yo;kshire. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  Mowbray, 
Hastings,  and  Others. 

Arch.  What  is  this  forest  call'd  ? 

Hast.  'T  is  Gualtree  forest,  an  't  shall   please 
your  grace. 

Arch.  Here  stand,  my  lords;   and  send   dis- 
coverers forth, 
To  know  the  numbers  of  our  enemies. 

Hast.  We  have  sent  forth  already. 

Arth.  'T  is  well  done. 

My  friends,  and  brethren  in  these  great  affairs, 
I  must  acquaint  you  that  I  have  receiv'd 
New-dated  letters  from  Ncrthumberland  ; 
Their  cold  intent,  tenor  and  substance,  thus : — 
Here  doth  he  wish  his  person,  with  such  powers 
As  might  hold  sortance  with  his  quality, 
■ZM 


The  which  he  could  not  levy  ;  whereupon 
He  is  retir'd,  to  ripe  his  growing  fortunes, 
To  Scotland  :  and  concludes  in  hearty  prayers, 
That  your  attempts  may  overUve  the  hazard, 
And  fearful  meeting  of  their  opposite. 

Mowh.  Thus  do  the  hopes  we  have  in  him  touch 
ground. 
And  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Hast.  Now,  what  news  ? 

Mess.  West  of  this  forest,  scarcely  off  a  mile, 
In  goodly  form  comes  on  the  enemy : 
And,  by  the  ground  they  hide,  I  judge  their  number 
Upon,  or  near,  the  rate  of  thirty  thousand. 

Mowh.  The  just  proportion  that  we  gave  thenj 
out. 
Let  us  sway  on,  and  face  them  in  the  field. 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCEKS    I. 


Enter  Westmoreland. 

Arch.  What  well-appointed   leader   fronts   us 
here  ? 

Mowb.  I  think,  it  is  my  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

West.  Health  and  fair  greeting  from  our  general, 
The  prince,  lord  John  and  duke  of  Lancaster. 

Arch.  Say   on,  my  lord   of  Westmoreland,  in 
peace ; 
What  duth  concern  your  coming  ? 

West.  Then,  my  lord, 

Unto  your  grace  do  I  in  chief  address 
The  substance  of  ray  speech.     If  that  rebellion 
Came  like  itself,  in  base  and  abject  routs, 
Led  on  by  bloody  youth,  guarded  with  rags, 
And  countenanc'd  by  boys,  and  beggary  ; 
I  say,  if  damn'd  commotion  so  appear'd. 
In  his  true,  native,  and  most  proper  shape, 
You,  reverend  father,  and  these  noble  lords. 
Had  not  been  here,  to  dress  the  ugly  form 
Of  base  and  bloody  insurrection 
With  your  fair  honours.    You,  lord  archbishop, — 
Whose  see  is  by  a  civil  peace  maintained ; 
Whose  beard  the  silver  hand  of  peace  hath  touch 'd  ; 
Whose  leai:ning  and  good  letters  peace  hath  tutor'd ; 
Whose  white  investments  figure  innocence. 
The  dove  and  very  blessed  spirit  of  peace, — 
Wherefore  do  you  so  ill  translate  yourself, 
Out  of  the  speech  of  peace,  tliat  bears  such  grace, 
Into  the  harsh  and  boist'rous  tongue  of  war  ? 
Turning  your  books  to  graves,  your  ink  to  blood, 
Your  pens  to  lances  ;  and  your  tongue  divine 
To  a  loud  trumpet,  and  a  point  of  war  ? 

Arch.  Wherefore  do  I  this  ? — so  the  question 
stands. 
Briefly  to  this  end  : — We  are  all  diseas'd; 
And,  with  our  surfeiting,  and  v.-anton  hours. 
Have  brought  ourselves  into  a  burning  fever, 
And  we  must  bleed  for  it :  of  which  disease 
Our  late  king,  Richard,  being  infected,  died. 
But,  my  most  noble  lord  oi'  Westmoreland, 
I  take  not  on  me  here  a^-  a  physician ; 
Nor  do  I,  as  an  enemy  to  peace, 
Troop  in  the  throngs  of  military  men  : 
But,  rather  show  a  v.  Siile  like  fearful  war. 
To  diet  rank  minds,  sick  of  happiness  ; 
And  purge  the  obstructions,  which  begin  to  stop 
Our  very  veins  of  life.     Hear  me  more  plainly. 
I  have  in  equal  balance  justly  weigh'd 
What  wrongs  our  arms  may  do,  what  wrongs  we 

suffer. 
And  find  our  griefs  heavier  than  our  offences. 


We  see  which  way  the  stream  of  time  Aoth  run, 
And  are  enforc'd  from  our  most  quiet  sphere 
By  the  rough  torrent  of  occasion  : 
And  have  the  summary  of  all  our  griefs, 
When  time  shall  serve,  to  show  in  articles ; 
Which,  long  ere  this,  we  offer'd  to  the  king, 
And  might  by  no  suit  gain  our  audience  : 
When  we  are  wrong'd,  and  would  unfold  our  griefs, 
We  are  denied  access  unto  his  person, 
Even  by  those  men  that  most  have  done  us  wrong. 
The  dangers  of  the  days  but  newly  gone, 
(Whose  memory  is  written  on  the  earth 
With  yet-appearing  blood,)  and  the  examples 
Of  every  minute's  instance,  (present  now,) 
Have  put  us  in  these  ill-beseeming  arms : 
Not  to  break  peace,  or  any  branch  of  it ; 
But  to  establish  here  a  peace  indeed, 
Concurring  both  in  name  and  quality. 

West.  When  ever  yet  was  your  appeal  denied  ? 
Wherein  have  you  been  galled  by  the  king  ? 
What  peer  hath  been  suborn'd  to  grate  on  you  ? 
That  you  should  seal  this  lawless  bloody  book 
Of  forg'd  rebellion  with  a  seal  divine. 
And  consecrate  commotion's  bitter  edge? 

Arch.  My  brother,  general !  the  commonwealth, 
To  brother  born  an  household  cruelty, 
I  make  my  quarrel  in  particular. 

West.  There  is  no  need  of  any  such  redress  ; 
Or,  if  there  were,  it  not  belongs  to  you. 

Mowb.  Why  not  to  him,  in  part;  and  to  us  al , 
That  feel  the  bruises  of  the  days  before  ; 
And  suffer  the  condition  of  these  times 
To  lay  a  heavy  and  unequal  hand 
Upon  our  honours  ? 

West.  0  my  good  lord  Mowbray, 

Construe  the  times  to  their  necessities, 
And  you  shall  say  indeed, — it  is  the  time, 
And  not  the  king,  that  doth  you  injuries. 
Yet,  for  your  part,  it  not  appears  to  me, 
Either  from  the  king,  or  in  the  present  time, 
That  you  should  have  an  inch  of  any  ground 
To  build  a  grief  on  :  Were  you  not  restor'd 
To  all  the  duke  of  Norfolk's  signiories. 
Your  noble  and  right-well-remember'd  father's  ? 

Mowb.    What  thing,  in  honour,  had  my  fathei 
lost, 
That  need  to  be  reviv'd,  and  breath'd  in  me  ? 
The  king,  that  lov'd  him,  as  the  state  stood  then, 
Was,  force  perforce,  compell'd  to  banish  him  : 
And  then,  when  Harry  Bolingbroke,  and  he, — 
Being  mounted,  and  both  roused  in  their  seats, 
Their  neighing  coursej'S  daring  of  the  spur, 


A 01    IT. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE   1 


Their  armed  staves  in  charge,  their  beavers  down, 
Their  eyes  of  fire  sparkling  through  sights  of  steel. 
And  the  loud  trumpet  blowing  them  together  ; 
Then,  then,  when  there  was  nothing  could  have 

staid 
My  father  from  the  breast  of  Bolingbroke, 
O,  when  the  king  did  throw  his  warder  down, 
His  own  life  hung  upon  the  staff  he  threw  : 
Then  threw  he  down  himself;  and  all  their  lives, 
That,  by  indictment,  and  by  dint  of  sword. 
Have  since  miscarried  under  Bolingbroke. 

West.  You  speak,  lord  Mowbray,  now  you  know 

not  what : 
The  earl  of  Heieford  was  reputed  then 
In  England  the  most  valiant  gentleman  ; 
Who  knows,  on  whom  fortune  would  then  have 

smil'd  ? 
But,  if  your  father  had  been  victor  there. 
He  ne'er  had  borne  it  out  of  Coventry  : 
For  all  the  country,  in  a  general  voice. 
Cried  hate  upon  him  ;  and  all  their  prayers,  and 

love, 
Were  set  on  Hereford,  whom  they  doted  on. 
And  bless 'd,  and  grac'd  indeed,  more  than  the  king. 
But  this  is  mere  digression  from  my  purpose. — 
Here  come  I  from  our  princely  general, 
To  know  your  griefs ;  to  tell  you  from  his  grace, 
That  he  will  give  you  audience  :  and  wherein 
It  shall  appear  that  your  demands  are  just, 
You  shall  enjoy  them  ;  every  thing  set  off, 
That  might  so  much  as  think  you  enemies. 

Mowh.   But  he  hath  forc'd  us  to  compel  this 

offer ; 
And  it  proceeds  from  policy,  not  love. 

West.  Mowbray,  you  overween,  to  take  it  so  ; 
This  offer  comes  from  mercy,  not  from  fear  : 
For,  lo  !  within  a  ken,  our  army  lies ; 
Upon  mine  honour,  all  too  confident 
To  give  admittance  to  a  thought  of  fear. 
Our  battle  is  more  full  of  names  than  yours, 
Our  men  more  perfect  in  the  use  of  arms. 
Our  armour  all  as  strong,  our  cause  the  best ; 
Then  reason  wills,  our  hearts  should  be  as  good : — 
Say  you  not  then,  our  offer  is  compeU'd. 

Mowb.    Well,  by  my  will,  we  shall  admit  no 

parley. 
West.   That  argues  but  the   shame   of  your 

offence : 
A  rotten  case  abides  no  handling. 

Hast.  Hath  the  prince  John  a  full  comi»ission. 
In  very  ample  virtue  of  his  father, 
To  hear,  and  absolutely  to  determine 

79« 


Of  what  conditions  we  shall  stand  upon  ? 

West.  That  is  intended  in  the  general's  name  : 
I  muse,  you  make  so  slight  a  question. 

Arch.    Then   take,  my  lord   of  Westmoreland, 

this  schedule ; 
For  this  contains  our  general  grievances  : — 
Each  several  article  herein  redress'd ; 
All  members  of  our  cause,  both  here  and  hence. 
That  are  insinew'd  to  this  action. 
Acquitted  by  a  true  substantial  form  ; 
And  present  execution  of  our  wills 
To  us,  and  to  our  purposes,  consign'd  ; 
We  come  within  our  awful  banks  again. 
And  knit  our  powers  to  the  arm  of  peace. 

West.   This  will  I  show  the  general.     I^lease 

you,  lords. 
In  sight  of  both  our  battles  we  may  meet : 
And  either  end  in  peace,  which  heaven  so  frame ! 
Or  to  the  place  of  difference  call  the  swords 
Which  must  decide  it. 

Arch.  My  lord,  we  will  do  so. 

\Exit  West. 
Mowh.  There  is  a  thing  within  my  bosom,  tells 

me. 
That  no  conditions  of  our  peace  can  stand. 

Hast.  Fear  you  not  that :  if  we  can  make  our 

peace 
Upon  such  large  terms,  and  so  absolute. 
As  our  conditions  shall  consist  upon. 
Our  peace  shall  stand  as  firm  as  rocky  mountains. 

Mowh.  Ay,  but  our  valuation  shall  be  such. 
That  every  slight  and  fiilse-derived  cause. 
Yea,  every  idle,  nice,  and  wanton  reason. 
Shall,  to  the  king,  taste  of  this  action  : 
That,  were  our  royal  faiths  martyrs  in  love. 
We  shall  be  winnow'd  with  so  rough  a  wind, 
That  even  our  corn  shall  seem  as  light  as  chaff. 
And  good  from  bad  find  no  partition. 

Arch.   No,  no,  my  lord :  Note  this, — the  king 

is  weary 
Of  dainty  and  such  picking  grievances : 
For  he  hath  found, — to  end  one  doubt  by  death, 
Revives  two  greater  in  the  heirs  of  life. 
And  therefore  will  he  wipe  his  tables  clean ; 
And  keep  no  tell-tale  to  his  memory. 
That  may  repeat  and  history  his  loss 
To  new  remembrance  :  For  full  well  he  knows, 
He  cannot  so  precisely  weed  this  land. 
As  his  misdoubts  present  occasion  : 
His  foes  are  so  enrooted  with  his  friends, 
That,  plucking  to  unfix  an  enemy, 
He  doth  unfasten  so,  and  shake  a  friend. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    11. 


Sr  that  this  land,  like  an  oifensive  wife, 
That  hath  enrag'd  him  on  to  offer  strokes ; 
As  he  is  striking,  holds  his  infant  up, 
And  hangs  resolv'd  correction  in  the  arm 
That  was  uprear'd  to  execution. 

Hast.  Besides,  the  king  hath  wasted  all  his  rods 
On  late  offenders,  that  he  now  doth  lack 
The  very  instruments  of  chastisement : 
So  that  his  power,  like  to  a  fangless  lion, 
May  offer,  but  not  hold. 

Arch.  .'T  is  very  true : — 

And  therefore  be  assur'd,  my  good  lord  marshal. 
If  we  do  now  make  our  atonement  well. 
Our  peace  will,  like  a  broken  limb  united. 
Grow  stronger  for  the  breaking. 

Mowb,  Be  it  so. 

Hero  is  return'd  my  lord  of  Westmoreland. 

Re-enter  Westmoreland. 

West.  The  prince  is  here  at  hand  :  Pleaseth 

your  lordship. 
To  meet  his  grace  just  distance  'tween  our  armies  ? 
Mowh.  Your  grace  of  York,  in  God's  name  then 

set  forward. 
Arch.  Before,  and  greet  his  grace : — my  lord, 

we  come.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter,  from  one  side,  Mowbrat,  ^Ae  Archbishop, 
Hastings,  and  Others :  from  the  other  side, 
Prince  John  op  Lancaster,  Westmoreland, 
Officers,  and  Attendants. 

•  F.  John.   Vou  are  well  encounter 'd  here,  my 
cousin  Mowbray : — 
Good  day  to  you,  gentle  lord  archbishop; — 
And  so  to  you,  lord  Hastings, — and  to  all. — 
My  lord  of  York,  it  better  show'd  with  you. 
When  that  your  flock,  assembled  by  the  bell. 
Encircled  you,  to  hear  with  reverence 
Your  exposition  on  the  holy  text : 
Than  now  to  see  you  here  an  iron  man, 
Cheering  a  rout  of  rebels  with  your  drum. 
Turning  the  word  to  sword,  and  life  to  death. 
That  man,  that  sits  within  a  monarch's  heart, 
And  ripens  in  the  sunshine  of  his  favour. 
Would  he  abuse  the  countenance  of  the  king. 
Alack,  what  mischiefs  might  he  set  abroach. 
In  shadow  of  such  greatness  !     With  you,  lord 

bishop, 
£t  is  even  so : — Who  hath  not  heard  it  spoken, 
How  deep  you  were  within  the  books  of  God  ? 


To  us,  the  speaker  in  his  parliament ; 
To  us,  the  imagin'd  voice  of  God  himself; 
The  very  opener,  and  intelligencer. 
Between  the  grace,  the  sanctities  of  heaven. 
And  our  dull  workings :  O,  who  shall  believe, 
But  you  misuse  the  reverence  of  your  place ; 
Employ  the  countenance  and  grace  of  heaven, 
As  a  false  favourite  doth  his  prince's  name, 
In  deeds  dishonourable  ?     You  have  taken  up, 
Under  the  counterfeited  zeal  of  God, 
The  subjects  of  his  substitute,  my  father ; 
And,  both  against  the  peace  of  heaven  and  him, 
Have  here  up-swarra'd  them. 

Arch.  Good  my  lord  of  Lancaster 

I  am  not  here  against  your  father's  peace  : 
But,  as  I  told  my  lord  of  Westmoreland, 
The  time  misorder'd  doth,  in  common  sense, 
Crowd  us,  and  crush  us,  to  this  monstrous  form, 
To  hold  our  safety  up.     I  sent  your  grace 
The  parcels  and  particulars  of  our  grief ; 
The  which  hath  been  with  scorn  shov'd  from  the 

court. 
Whereon  this  Hydra  son  of  war  is  born  : 
Whose   dangerous   eyes   may  well   be   charm'd 

asleep. 
With  grant  of  our  most  just  and  right  desires  ; 
And  true  obedience  of  this  madness  cur'd. 
Stoop  tamely  to  the  foot  of  majesty. 

Mowb.  If  not,  we  ready  are  to  try  our  fortunea 
To  the  last  man. 

JIast.  And  though  we  here  fall  down, 

We  have  supplies  to  second  our  attempt ; 
If  they  miscarry,  theirs  shall  second  them  : 
And  so,  success  of  mischief  shall  be  born  ; 
And  heir  from  heir  shall  hold  this  quarrel  up, 
Whiles  England  shall  have  generation. 

F.  John.  You  are  too  shallow,  Hastings,  much 
too  shallow, 
To  sound  the  bottom  of  the  after-t]rae.j. 

West.   Pleaseth  your  grace,  to   answer  them 
directly. 
How  far-forth  you  do  like  their  articles  ? 

F.  John.   I  like  them  all,  and  do  allow  them, 
well : 
And  swear  here  by  the  honour  of  my  blood, 
My  father's  purposes  have  been  mistook : 
And  some  about  him  have  too  lavishly 
Wrested  his  meaning,  and  authority. — 
My  lord,  these  griefs  shall  be  with  speed  redress'd ; 
Upon  my  soul,  they  shall.   If  this  may  please  you, 
Discharge  your  powers  unto  their  several  counties, 
As  we  will  ours :  and  hero,  between  the  armies, 

'797 


ICI   IV. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


bUKNE    III. 


Let 's  drink  together  friendly,  and  embrace ; 
That  all  their  eyes  may  bear  those  tokens  home, 
Of  our  restored  love,  and  amity. 

Arch.  I  take  your  princely  word  for  these  re- 
dresses. 
P.  John.  I  give  it  you,  and  will  maintain  my 
word : 
And  thereupon  I  drink  unto  your  grace. 

Hast.  Go,  captain,  [To  an  OflBcer,]  and  deliver 
to  the  array 
This  news  of  peace ;  let  them  have  pay,  and  part : 
I  know,  it  will  well  please  them  ;  Hie  thee,  captain. 

[Exit  Officer. 
Arch.    To  you,  my  noble  lord  of  Westmore- 
land. 
West.  I  pledge  your  grace  :    And,  if  you  knew 
what  pains 
I  have  bestow'd,  to  breed  this  present  peace, 
You  would  drink  freely  ;  but  my  love  to  you 
Shall  show  itself  more  openly  hereafter. 
Arch.  I  do  not  doubt  you. 
West.  I  am  glad  of  it. — 

Health  to  my  lord,  and  gentle  cousin,  Mowbray. 
Mowh.    You  wish  me  health  in    very  happy 
season ; 
For  I  am,  on  the  sudden,  something  ill. 

Arch.  Against  ill  chances,  men  are  ever  merry ; 
But  heaviness  foreruns  the  good  event. 

West.  Therefore  be  merry,  coz ;  since  sudden 
sorrow 
Serves  to  say  thus, — Some  good  thing  comes  to- 
morrow. 
Arch.  Believe  me,  I  am  passing  light  in. spirit. 
Mowh.  So  much  the  worse,  if  your  own  rule  be 
true.  [Shouts  within. 

P.  John.  The  word  of  peace  is  render'd  :  Hark, 

how  they  shout ! 
Mowh.  This  had  been  cheerful,  after  victory. 
Arch.  A  peace  is  of  the  nature  of  a  conquest ; 
For  then  both  parties  nobly  are  subdued. 
And  neither  party  loser. 

P.  John.  Go,  my  lord, 

And  let  our  army  be  discharged  too. — • 

[Exit  West. 
And,  good  my  lord,  so  please  you,  let  our  trains 
March  by  us ;  that  we  may  peruse  the  men 
We  should  have  cop'd  withal. 

Arch.  Go,  good  lord  Hastings, 

And,  ere  they  be  disniiss'd,  let  them  march  by. 

[Exit  Hast. 
P.  John.  I  trust,  my  lords,  we  shall  lie  to-night 
together. — 
71>8 


Re-enter  Westmoreland. 

Now,  cousin,  wherefore  stands  our  army  still  ? 

West.  The  leaders,  having  charge  from  you  tc 
stand. 
Will  not  go  off  until  they  hear  you  speak 

P.  John.  They  kijow  their  duties. 

Re-enter  Hastings. 

Hast.  My  lord,  our  army  is  dispers'd  already : 
Like   youthful    steers   unyok'd,  they   take   their 

courses 
East,  west,  north,  south  ;  or,  like  a  school  broke  up 
Each  hurries  toward  his  home,  and  sporting-place. 

West.  Good  tidings,  my  lord  Hastings  ;  for  the 
which 
I  do  arrest  thee,  traitor,  of  high  treason  : — 
And  you,  lord  Archbishop, — and  you,  lord  Mow- 
bray, 
Of  capital  treason  I  attach  you  both. 

Mowh.  Is  this  proceeding  just  and  honourable  ? 

West.  Is  your  assembly  so  ? 

Arch.  Will  you  thus  break  your  faith  ? 

P.  John.  I  pawn'd  thee  none: 

I  promis'd  you  redress  of  these  same  grievances. 
Whereof  you   did    complain ;    which,   by    mine 

honour, 
I  will  perform  with  a  most  christian  care. 
But,  for  you,  rebels, — look  to  taste  the  due 
Meet  for  rebellion,  and  such  acts  as  yours. 
Most  shallowly  did  you  these  arms  commence, 
Fondly  brought  here,  and  foolishly  sent  hence. — 
Strike  up  our  drums,  pursue  the  scatter'd  stray ; 
Heaven,  and  not  we,  hath  safely  fought  to-day. — 
Some  guard  these  traitors  to  the  block  of  death  ; 
Treason's  true  bed,  and  yielder  up  of  breath. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  ITi.— Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Alarums  :  Excursions,     Enter  Falstaff  and 
CoLEViLE,  meeting. 

Fal.  What 's  your  name,  sir  ?  of  what  condition 
are  you  ;  and  of  what  place,  I  pray  ? 

Cole.  I  am  a  knight,  sir :  and  my  name  is — 
Colevile  of  the  dale. 

Fal.  Well  then,  Colevile  is  your  name ;  a  knight 
is  your  degree ;  and  your  place,  the  dale  :  Colevile 
shall  still  be  your  name ;  a  traitor  your  degree ; 
and  the  dungeon  your  place, — a  place  deep  enough ; 
so  shall  you  still  be  Colevile  of  the  dale. 

Cole.  Are  not  you  sir  John  Falstaff? 


!  ! 


I 


ACT    lY. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


scENB  nx. 


Fal.  As  good  a  man  as  he,  sir,  whoe'er  I  am. 
Do  ye  yield,  sir?  or  shall  I  sweat  for  you  ?  If  I  do 
sweat,  they  are  drops  of  thy  lovers,  and  they  weep 
for  thy  death :  therefore  rouse  up  fear  and  trem- 
bling, and  do  observance  to  my  mercy. 

Cole.  I  think,  you  are  sir  John  FalstafF;  and, 
in  that  thought,  yield  me. 

Fal.  I  have  a  whole  school  of  tongues  in  this 
belly  of  mine ;  and  not  a  tongue  of  them  all 
speaks  any  other  word  but  my  name.  An  I  had 
but  a  belly  of  any  indifferency,  I  were  simply  the 
most  active  fellow  in  Europe:  My  womb,  my 
womb,  my  womb  undoes  me. — Here  comes  our 
general. 

Enter  Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  Westmore- 
land, and  Others. 

P.  John.  The  heat  is  past,  follow  no  further 
now  ; — 
Call  in  the  powers,  good  cousin  Westmoreland. — 

[Exit  West. 
Now,   Falstaff,   where  have   you     been    all    this 

while? 
When  every  thing  is  ended,  then  you  come : 
These  tardy  tricks  of  yours  will,  on  my  life. 
One  time  or  other  break  some  gallows'  back. 

Fal.  I  would  be  sorry,  my  lord,  but  it  should 
be  thus ;  I  never  knew  yet,  but  rebuke  and  check 
was  the  reward  of  valour.  Do  you  think  me  a 
swallow,  an  arrow,  or  a  bullet  ?  have  I,  in  my 
poor  and  old  motion,  the  expedition  of  thought  ? 
I  have  speeded  hither  with  the  very  extremest  inch 
of  possibility;  I  have  foundered  nine-score  and 
odd  posts :  and  here,  travel-tainted  as  I  am,  have, 
in  my  pure  and  immaculate  valour,  taken  sir  John 
Colevile  of  the  dale,  a  most  furious  knight,  and 
valorous  enemy :  But  what  of  that  ?  he  saw  me, 
and  yielded ;  that  1  may  justly  say  with  the  hook- 
nosed fellow  of  Rome,^ 1  came,  saw,  and  over- 
came. 

F.  John.  It  was  more  of  his  courtesy  than  your 
deserving. 

Fal.  I  know  not ;  here  he  is,  and  here  I  yield 
him :  and  I  beseech  your  grace,  let  it  be  booked 
with  the  rest  of  this  day's  deeds  ;  or,  by  the  lord, 
I  will  have  it  in  a  particular  ballad  else,  with  mine 
own  picture  on  the  top  of  it,  Colevile  kissing  my 
foot :  To  the  which  course  if  I  be  enforced,  if  you 
do  not  all  show  like  gilt  two-pences  to  me  ;  and  I, 
in  the  clear  sky  of  fame,  o'ershine  you  as  much 
as  the  full  nr.oon  doth  the  cinders  of  the  element, 
which  show  like  pins'  heads  to  her ;  believe  not 


the  word  of  the  noble :    Therefore  let  me  have 
right,  and  let  desert  mount. 

P.  John.  Thine 's  too  heavy  to  mount. 

Fal.  Let  it  shine  then. 

P.  John.  Thine  's  too  thick  to  shine. 

Fal.  Let  it  do  something,  my  good  lord,  that 
may  do  me  good,  and  call  it  what  you  will. 

P.  John.  Is  thy  name  Colevile  ? 

Cole.  It  is,  my  lord. 

P.  John.  A  famous  rebel  art  thou,  Colevile. 

Fal.  And  a  famous  true  subject  took  him. 

Cole.  I  am,  my  lord,  but  as  my  betters  are, 
That  led  me  hither :  had  they  been  rul'd  by  me, 
You  should  have  won  them  dearer  than  you  have. 

Fal.  I  know  not  how  they  sold  themselves:^ 
but  thou,  hke  a  kind  fellow,  gavest  thyself  away, 
and  I  thank  thee  for  thee.  \ 

Re-enter  Westmoreland. 

P.  John.  Now,  have  you  left  pursuit  ? 

Went.  Retreat  is  made,  and  execution  stay'd. 

P.  John.  Send  Colevile,  with  his  confederates, 
To  York,  to  present  execution  : — 
Blunt,  lead  him  hence;  and  see  you  guard  him  sure 
[Exeunt  some  with  Cole. 
And  now  despatch  we  toward  the  court,  my  lords ; 
I  hear,  the  king  my  father  is  sore  sick : 
Our  news  shall  go  before  us  to  his  majesty. 
Which,  cousin,  you  shall  bear, — to  comfort  him. 
And  we  with  sober  speed  will  follow  you. 

Fal.  My  lord,  I  beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to 
go  through  Glostershire :  and,  when  you  come  to 
court,  stand  my  good  lord,  'pray,  in  your  good 
report. 

P.  John.  Fare  you  well,  Falstaff;  I,  in  my  con- 
dition, 
Shall  better  speak  of  you  than  you  deserve.  [Exit. 

Fal.  I  would,  you  had  but  the  wit ;  't  were  bet- 
ter than  your  dukedom. — Good  faith,  this  same 
young  sober-blooded  boy  doth  not  love  me ;  nor 
a  man  cannot  make  him  laugh  : — but  that 's  no 
marvel,  he  drinks  no  wine.  There 's  never  any  of 
these  demure  boys  come  to  any  proof:  for  thin 
drink  doth  so  over-cool  their  blood,  and  making 
many  fish-meals,  that  they  fall  into  a  kind  of  male 
green-sickness ;  and  then,  when  they  mai-ry,  they 
get  wenches :  they  are  generally  fools  and  cow- 
ards ; — which  some  of  us  should  •  be  too,  but  for 
inflammation.  A  good  sherris-sack  hath  a  two- 
fold operation  in  it.  It  ascends  me  into  the  brain  ; 
dries  me  there  all  the  foolish,  and  dull,  and  crudy 
vapours  which  environ  it :  makes  it  apprehensive, 

199 


AOT   IV. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    IV. 


quick,  forgetive,"  full  of  nimble,  fiery,  and  delect- 
able shapes ;  which  deliver'd  o'er  to  the  voice,  (the 
tongue,)  which  is  the  birth,  becomes  excellent  wit. 
The  second  property  of  your  excellent  sherris  is, — 
the  warming  of  the  blood  ;  which,  before  cold  and 
settled,  left  the  liver  white  and  pale,  which  is  the 
badge  of  pusillanimity  and  cowardice:  but  the 
sherris  warms  it,  and  makes  it  course  from  the  in- 
wards to  the  parts  extreme.  It  illumineth  the 
face ;  which,  as  a  beacon,  gives  warning  to  all  the 
rest  of  this  little  kingdom,  man,  to  arm  :  and  then 
the  vital  commoners,  and  inland  petty  spirits, 
muster  me  all  to  their  captain,  the  heart ;  who, 
great,  and  puffed  up  with  this  retinue,  doth  any 
deed  of  courage  ;  and  this  valour  comes  of  sher- 
ris :  So  that  skill  in  the  weapon  is  nothing,  with- 
out sack ;  for  that  sets  it  a- work :  and  learning, 
a  mere  hoard  of  gold  kept  by  a  devil  ;*'  till  sack 
commences  it,  and  sets  it  in  act  and  use.  Hereof 
comes  it,  that  prince  Harry  is  valiant :  for  the 
cold  blood  he  did  naturally  inherit  of  his  father, 
he  hath,  like  lean,  sterile,  and  bare  land,  manured, 
husbanded,  and  tilled,  with  excellent  endeavour  of 
drinking  good,  and  good  store  of  fertile  sherris  ; 
that  he  is  become  very  hot  and  valiant.  If  I  had 
a  thousand  sons,  the  first  human  principle  I  would 
teach  them,  should  be, — to  forswear  thin  pota- 
tions, and  addict  themselves  to  sack. 

Enter  Bardolph. 

How  now,  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.  The  army  is  discharged  all,  and  gone. 

Fal.  Let  them  go.  I  '11  through  Glostershire ; 
and  there  will  I  visit  master  Robert  Shallow,  es- 
quire :  I  have  him  already  tempering  between  my 
finger  and  my  thumb,  and  shortly  will  I  seal  with 
him.     Come  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Westminster.  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Clarence,  Prince  Hum- 
phrey, Warwick,  and  Others. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  lords,  if  heaven  doth  give  suc- 
cessful end 
To  this  debate  that  bleedeth  at  our  doors. 
We  will  our  youth  lead  on  to  higher  fields. 
And  draw  no  swords  but  what  are  sanctified. 
Our  navy  is  address'd,  our  power  collected. 
Our  substitutes  in  absence  well  invested, 
And  every  thing  lies  level  to  our  wish  : 
Only,  we  want  a  little  personal  strength  ; 
And  pause  us,  till  these  rebels,  now  afoot, 
800 


Come  underneath  the  yoke  of  government. 

War.   Both  which,  we   doubt   not  but   7om 
majesty 
Shall  soon  enjoy, 

K.  Hen.  Humphrey,  my  son  of  Glo&ter, 

Where  is  the  prince  your  brother  ? 

P.  Humph.  I  think,  he  's  gone  to  hunt,  my 
lord,  at  Windsor. 

K.  Hen.  And  how  accompanied  ? 

P.  Humph.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord. 

K.  Hen.  Is  not  his  brother,  Thomas  of  Clar- 
ence, with  him  ? 

P.  Humph.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  he  is  in  pres- 
ence here. 

Cla.  What  would  my  lord  and  father  ? 

K.  Hen.  Nothing  but  well  to  thee,  Thomas  o. 
Clarence. 
How  chance,  thou  art  not  with  the  prince  th) 

brother  ? 
He  loves  thee,  and  thou  dost  neglect  him,  Thomas 
Thou  hast  a  better  place  in  his  affection. 
Than  all  thy  brothers  :  cherish  it,  my  boy ; 
And  noble  oflSces  thou  may'st  effect 
Of  mediation,  after  I  am  dead. 
Between  his  greatness  and  thy  other  brethren  :-- 
Therefore,  omit  him  not ;  blunt  not  his  love: 
Nor  loose  the  good  advantage  of  his  grace. 
By  seeming  cold,  or  careless  of  his  will. 
For  he  is  gracious,  if  he  be  observ'd  ; 
He  hath  a  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 
Open  as  day  for  melting  charity  : 
Yet  notwithstanding,  being  incens'd,  he  's  flint ; 
As  humorous  as  winter,  and  as  sudden 
As  flaws  congealed  in  the  spring  of  day. 
His  temper,  therefore,  must  be  well  observ'd : 
Chide  him  for  faults,  and  do  it  reverently. 
When  you  perceive  his  blood  inclin'd  to  mirth ; 
But,  being  moody,  give  him  line  and  scope  ; 
Till  that  his  passions,  like  a  whale  on  ground, 
Confound  themselves  with  working.     Learn  this, 

Thomas, 
And  thou  shalt  prove  a  shelter  to  thy  friends ; 
A  hoop  of  gold,  to  bind  thy  brothei-s  in ; 
That  the  united  vessel  of  their  blood, 
Mingled  with  venom  of  suggestion, 
(As,  force  perforce,  the  age  will  pour  it  in,) 
Shall  never  leak,  though  it  do  work  as  strong 
As  aconitum,  or  rash  gunpowder. 

Cla.  I  shall  observe  him  with  all  care  and  love. 

K.  Hen.  Why  art  thou  not  at  Windsor  with 
him,  Thomas  ? 

Cla.  He  is  not  there  to-day ;  he  dines  in  London. 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY'THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    XV 


K.  Hen.  And  how  accompanied  ?  can'st  thou 

tell  that  ? 
Cla.  With  Poins,  and  other  his  continual  fol- 
lowers. 
K.  Hen.  Most  subject  is  the  fattest  soil  to  weeds ; 
And  he,  the  noble  image  of  my  youth, 
Is  overspread  with  them  :  Therefore  my  grief 
Stretches  itself  beyond  the  hour  of  death  ; 
The  blood  weeps  from  my  heart,  when  I  do  shape, 
In  forms  imaginary,  the  unguided  days, 
And  rotten  times,  that  you  shall  look  upon 
When  I  am  sleeping  with  my  ancestors. 
For  when  his  headstrohg  riot  hath  no  curb. 
When  rage  and  hot  blood  are  his  counsellors. 
When  means  and  lavish  manners  meet  together, 
0,  with  what  wings  shall  his  affections  fly 
Towards  fronting  peril  and  oppos'd  decay  ! 

War.  My  gracious  lord,  you  look  beyond  him 
quite  : 
The  prince  but  studies  his  companions,     • 
Like  a  strange  tongue  :  wherein,  to  gain  the  lan- 
guage, 
'T  is  needful,  that  the  most  immodest  word 
}3e  look'd  upon,  and  learn'd  :  which  once  attain'd. 
Your  highness  knows,  comes  to  no  further  use, 
But  to  bo  known,  and  hated.    So,  like  gross  terms. 
The  prince  will,  in  the  perfectness  of  time. 
Cast  off  his  followers  :  and  their  memory 
Shall  as  a  pattern  or  a  measure  live. 
By  which  his  grace  must  mete  the  lives  of  others  ; 
Turning  past  evils  to  advantages. 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  seldom,  when  the  bee  doth  leave 
her  comb 
In  the  dead  carrion. — Who  's  here  ?     Westmore- 
land ? 

Enter  Westmoreland. 

West.  Health  to  my  sovereign !  and  new  happi- 
ness 
Added  to  that  that  I  am  to  deliver  ! 
Prince  John,  your  son,  doth  kiss  your  grace's  hand  : 
Mowbray,  the  bishop  Scroop,  Hastings,  and  all. 
Are  brought  to  the  correction  of  your  law  ; 
There  is  not  now  a  rebel's  sword  unsheath'd. 
But  peace  puts  forth  her  olive  every  where. 
The  manner  how  this  action  hath  been  borne. 
Here  at  more  leisure  may  your  highness  read  ; 
With  every  course,  in  his  particular. 

K.  Hen.  O  Westmoreland,  thou  art  a  summer 
bird, 
Which  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings 
The  lifting  up  of  day      Look !  here 's  more  news. 

101 


Enter  Harcoukt. 

Har.  From  enemies  heaven  keep  your  majesty ; 
And,  when  they  stand  against  you,  may  they  fall 
As  those  that  I  am  come  to  tell  you  of ! 
The  earl  Northumberland,  and  the  lord  Bardolpli, 
With  a  great  power  of  English,  and  of  Scots, 
Are  by  the  sheriff  of  Yorkshire  overthrown  : 
The  manner  and  true  order  of  the  fight. 
This  packet,  please  it  you,  contains  at  large. 
K.  Hen.  And  wherefore  should  these  good  news 
make  me  sick  ? 
Will  fortune  never  come  with  both  hands  full. 
But  write  her  fair  words  still  in  foulest  letters  ? 
She  either  gives  a  stomach,  and  no  food, — 
Such  are  the  poor,  in  health ;  or  else  a  feast. 
And  takes  away  the  stomach, — such  are  the  rich. 
That  have  abundance,  and  enjoy  it  not. 
I  should  rejoice  now  at  this  happy  news ; 
And  now  my  sight  fails,  and  my  brain  is  giddy: — 
O  me  !  come  near  me,  now  I  am  much  ill.  \^Swo(jfns. 
P.  Humph.  Comfort,  your  majesty  ! 
Cla.  0  my  royal  father 

West.  My  sovereign   lord,   cheer   up  yourself, 

look  up ! 
War.  Be  patient,  princes ;  you  do  know,  these 
fits 
Are  with  his  highness  very  ordinary. 
Stand  from  him,  give  him  air;  he'll  straight  be 
well. 
Cla.  No,  no  ;  he  cannot  long  hold  out  these 
pangs ; 
The  incessant  care  and  labour  of  his  mind 
Hath  wrought  the  mure,  that  should  confine  it  in,*' 
So  thin,  that  life  looks  through,  and  will  break  out. 
P.  Humph.  The  people  fear  me ;  for  they  do 
observe 
Unfather'd  heirs,"  and  loathly  birds  of  nature  : 
The  seasons  change  their  manners,  as  the  year 
Had  found  some  months  asleep,  and  leap'd  them 
over. 
Cla.  The  river  hath  thrice  flow'd,  no  ebb  be 
tween  : 
And  the  old  folk,  time's  doting  chronicles, 
Say,  it  did  so,  a  little  time  before 
That  our  great  grandsire,  Edward,  sick'd  and  died. 
War.  Speak  lower,  princes,  for  the  king  re- 
covers. 
P.  Humph.  This  apoplex  will,  certain,  be  nis 

end. 
K.  Hen.  I  pray  you,  take  me  up,  and  bear  nse 
hence 

801 


ACT    IV. 


SJiCOND  if^RT  OF 


SCENE    IV. 


Into  some  other  chamber  :  softly,  'pray. 

[They  convey  the  King  into  an  inner  part  of 
the  Room^  and  place  him  on  a  Bed. 
Let  there  be  no  noise  made,  my  gentle  friends ; 
Unless  some  dull  and  favourable  hand 
Will  whisper  music  to  my  weary  spirit. 

War.  Call  for  the  music  in  the  other  room. 
K.  Hen.  Set  me  the  crown  upon  my  pillow 

here. 
Cla.  His  eye  is  hollow,  and  he  changes  much. 
War.  Less  noise,  less  noise. 

Enter  Prince  Henry. 

P.  Hen.  Who  saw  the  duke  of  Clarence  ? 

Cla.  I  am  here,  brother,  full  of  heaviness. 

P.  Hen.  How  now  I  rain  within  doors,  and  none 
abroad  ! 
How  doth  the  king  ? 

P.  Humph.  Exceeding  ill. 

P.  Hen-  Heard  he  the  good  news  yet  ? 

Tell  it  him. 

P.  Humph.  He  alter'd  much  upon  the  hearing  it. 

P.  Hen.  If  he  be  sick 
With  joy,  he  will  recover  without  physic. 

War.  Not  so  much  noise,  my  lords : — sweet 
prince,  speak  low ; 
The  king  your  father  is  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Cla.  Let  us  withdraw  into  the  other  room. 

War.  Will  't  please  your  grace  to  2;o  along 
with  us  ? 

P.  Hen.  No ;  I  will  sit  and  watch  here  by  the 
king.  \Exeunt  all  hut  P.  Henry. 

Why  doth  the  crown  lie  there  upon  his  pillow. 
Being  so  troublesome  a  bedfellow  ? 
O  polish'd  perturbation  !  golden  care  ! 
That  keep'st  the  ports  of  slumber  open  wide 
To  many  a  watchful  night ! — sleep  with  it  now  ! 
Yet  not  so  sound,  and  half  so  deeply  sweet, 
As  he,  whose  brow,  with  homely  biggin  bound. 
Snores  out  the  watch  of  night.     0  majesty  ! 
When  thou  dost  pinch  thy  bearer,  thou  dost  sit 
Like  a  rich  armour  worn  in  heat  of  day, 
That  scalds  with  safety.     By  his  gates  of  breath 
There  lies  a  downy  feather,  which  stirs  not : 
Did  he  suspire,  that  light  and  weightless  down 
Perforce  must   move. — My  gracious   lord  !     my 

father ! — 
This  sleep  is  sound  indeed  ;  this  is  a  sleep. 
That  from  this  golden  rigo""  hath  divorc'd 
So  many  English  kings.     Thy  due,  from  rae, 
is  tears,  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the  blood ; 
Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness, 
S02 


Shall,  0  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously  : 
My  due,  from  thee,  is  this  imperial  crown ; 
Which,  as  immediate  from  thy  place  and  blood, 
Derives  itself  to  me.     Lo,  here  it  sits, — 

\^Putting  it  on  his  head. 
Which  heaven  shall  guard :  and  put  the  worid'd 

whole  strength 
Into  one  giant  arm,  it  shall  not  force 
This  lineal  honour  from  me :  This  from  thee 
Will  I  to  mine  leave,  as  't  is  left  to  me.        [Bxit. 
K.  Hen.  Warwick !  Gloster !  Clarence ! 

Re-enter  Warwick,  and  the  rest. 

Cla.  Doth  the  king  call  ? 

War.  What  would  your  majesty  ?     How  fares 

your  grace  ? 
IT.  Hen.  Why  did  you  leave  me  here  alone, 

my  lords  ? 
Cla.  We  left  the  prince  my  brother  here,  my 
•    liege. 
Who  undertook  to  sit  and  watch  by  you. 

IC.  Hen.  The  prince  of  Wales  ?    Where  is  he  ? 
let  me  see  him  : 
He  is  not  here. 

War.  This  door  is  open ;  he  is  gone  this  way. 
P.  Humph.  He  came  not  through  the  chamber 

where  we  stay'd. 
JT.  Hen.  Where  is  the  crown  ?  who  took  it  from 

my  pillow  ? 
War.  When  we  withdrew,  my  liege,  we  left  it 

here. 
IC.  Hen.  The  prince  hath  ta'en  it  hence : — go, 
seek  him  out. 
Is  he  so  hasty,  that  he  doth  suppose 

My  sleep  my  death  ? 

Find  him,  my  lord  of  Warwick ;  chide  him  hither. 

[Exit  War. 
This  part  of  his  conjoins  with  my  disease, 
And  helps  to  end  me. — See,  sons,  what  things 


you  are 


How  quickly  nature  falls  into  revolt, 

When  gold  becomes  her  object! 

For  this  the  foolish  over-careful  fathers 

Have  broke  their  sleep  with  thoughts,  their  brains 

with  care. 
Their  bones  with  industry  ; 
For  this  they  have  engrossed  and  pil'd  up 
The  canker'd  heaps  of  strange-achieved  gold  ; 
For  this  they  have  been  thoughtful  to  invest 
Their  sons  with  arts,  and  martial  exercises : 
When,  like  the  bee,  tolling  from  every  flower 
The  virtuous  sweets ; 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    IT- 


Our  thighs  pack'd  with   wax,  our  mouths  \vith 

honey, 
We  bring  it  to  the  hive ;  and,  like  the  bees, 
Are  uiurder'd  for  our  pains.     This  bitter  taste 
Yield  his  engrossments  to  the  ending  father. — 

Re-enter  Warwick. 

Now,  where  is  he  that  will  not  stay  so  long 
Till  his  friend  sickness  hath  determin'd  me  ? 

Wai:  My  lord,  I  found  the  prince  in  the  next 
room, 
Washing  with  kindly  tears  his  gentle  cheeks ; 
With  such  a  deep  demeanour  in  great  sorrow. 
That  tyranny,  which  never  quafFd  but  blood, 
Would,  by  beholding  him,  have  wash'd  his  knife 
With  gentle  eye-drops.     He  is  coming  hither. 

K.  Hen.  But  wherefore  did  he  take  away  the 
crown  ? 

Re-enter  Prince  Henry. 

Lo,where  he  comes. — Come  hither  to  rae,  Harry : — 
Depart  the  chamber,  leave  us  here  alone. 

[JExeunt  Clar.,  P.  Humph.,  Lords,  <&c. 

P.  Hen.  I    never  thought  to  hear  you  speak 
again. 

K.  Hen.  Thy  wish  was  father,  Harry,  to  that 
thought : 
I  stay  too  long  by  thee,  I  weary  thee. 
Dost  thou  so  hunger  for  my  empty  chair. 
That  thou  wilt  needs  invest  thee  with  mine  honours 
Before  thy  hour  be  ripe  ?    0  foolish  youth  I 
Thou  seek'st  the  greatness  that  will  overwhelm  thee. 
Stay  but  a  little ;  for  my  cloud  of  dignity 
Is  held  from  falling  with  so  weak  a  wind. 
That  it  will  quickly  drop :  my  day  is  dim. 
Thou  hast  stol'n  that,  which,  after  some  few  hours. 
Were  thine  without  offence  ;  and,  at  my  death, 
Thou  hast  seal'd  up  my  expectation  : 
Thy  life  did  manifest,  thou  lov'dst  me  not. 
And  thou  wilt  have  me  die  assured  of  it. 
Thou  hid'st  a  thousand  daggers  in  thy  thoughts ; 
Which  thou  hast  whetted  on  thy  stony  heart, 
To  stab  at  half  an  hour  of  my  life. 
What !  canst  thou  not  forbear  me  half  an  hour  ? 
Then  get  thee  gone  ;  and  dig  my  grave  thyself; 
And  bid  the  merry  bells  ring  to  thine  ear. 
That  thou  art  crowned,  not  that  I  am  dead. 
Let  all  the  tears  that  should  bedew  riiy  hearse, 
Be  drops  of  balm,  to  sanctify  thy  head  : 
Only  compound  me  with  forgotten  dust ; 
Give  that,  which  gave  thee  life,  unto  the  worms. 
Pluck  down  my  officers,  break  my  decrees ; 


For  now  a  time  is  come  to  mock  at  form. 
Harry  the  Fifth  is  crown'd  : — Up,  vanity  ! 
Down,  royal  state  I  all  you  sage  counsellors,  hence ! 
And  to  the  English  court  assemble  now, 
From  every  region,  apes  of  idleness  ! 
Now,  neighbour  confines,  purge  you  of  your  scum ; 
Have  you  a  ruffian,  that  Avill  swear,  drink,  dance. 
Revel  the  night ;  rob,  murder,  and  commit 
The  oldest  sins  the  newest  kind  of  ways  ? 
Be  happy,  he  will  trouble  you  no  more  : 
England  shall  double  gild  his  treble  guilt ; 
England  shall  give  him  office,  honour,  might . 
For  the  fifth  Harry  from  curb'd  licence  plucks 
The  muzzle  of  restraint,  and  the  Wild  dog 
Shall  flesh  his  tooth  in  every  innocent. 

0  my  poor  kingdom,  sick  with  civil  blows  ! 
When  that  my  care  could  not  withhold  thy  riots, 
What  wilt  thou  do,  when  riot  is  thy  care  ? 

O,  thou  wilt  be  a  wilderness  again, 
Peopled  with  wolves,  thy  old  inhabitants  ! 

P.  Hen.  0,  pardon  me,  my  liege  !  but  for  mj 
tears,  [Kneeling 

The  moist  impediments  unto  my  speech, 

1  had  forestall'd  this  dear  and  deep  rebuke. 
Ere  you  with  grief  had  spoke,  and  I  had  heard 
The  course  of  it  so  far.     There  is  your  crown  ; 
And  He  that  wears  the  crown  immortally, 
Long  guard  it  yours  !     If  I  affect  it  more. 
Than  as  your  honour,  and  as  your  renown. 
Let  me  no  more  from  this  obedience  rise, 
(Which  my  most  true  and  inward-duteous  spirit 
Teacheth,)  this  prostrate  and  exterior  bending  ! 
Heaven  witness  with  me,  when  I  here  came  in. 
And  found  no  course  of  breath  within  your  majesty, 
How  cold  it  struck  my  heart !  If  I  do  feign, 

0,  let  me  in  my  present  wildness  die  ; 
And  never  live  to  show  the  incredulous  world 
The  noble  change  that  I  have  purposed  ! 
Coming  to  look  on  you,  thinking  you  dead, 
(And  dead  almost,  my  liege,  to  think  you  were,) 
I  spake  unto  the  crown,  as  having  sense. 
And  thus  upbraided  it :    "  The  care  on  thee  de- 
pending. 
Hath  fed  upon  the  body  of  my  father ; 
Therefore,  thou,  best  of  gold,  art  worst  of  gold. 
Other,  less  fine  in  carat,  is  more  precious, 
Preserving  life  in  med'cine  potable:^* 
But  thou,  most  fine,  most  honour'd,  most  renown 'd, 
Hast  eat  thy  bearer  up."     Thus,  my  most  royaJ 

liege. 
Accusing  it,  I  put  it  on  my  head ; 
To  try  with  it, — as  with  an  enemy, 

80S 


ACT   IV. 


SECOND  PART  0¥ 


SCENE   IV. 


That  had  before  my  face  murder'd  my  father, — 

The  quarrel  of  a  true  inheritor. 

But  if  it  did  infect  my  blood  with  joy, 

Or  swell  my  thoughts  to  any  strain  of  pride ; 

If  any  rebel  or  vain  spirit  of  mine 

Did,  with  the  least  affection  of  a  welcome, 

Give  entertainment  to  the  might  of  it, 

Let  God  for  ever  keep  it  from  ray  head ! 

And  make  me  as  the  poorest  vassal  is. 

That  doth  with  awe  and  terror  kneel  to  it ! 

K.  Hen.  0  my  son  ! 
Heaven  put  it  in  thy  mind,  to  take  it  hence. 
That  thou  might'st  win  the  more    thy  father's 

love. 
Pleading  so  wisely  in  excuse  of  it. 
Come  hither,  Harry,  sit  thou. by  my  bed; 
And  hear,  I  think,  the  very  latest  counsel 
That  ever  I  shall  breathe.  Heaven  knows,  my  son, 
By  what  by-paths,  and  indirect  crook'd  ways, 
I  met  this  crown ;  and  I  myself  know  well, 
How  troublesome  it  sat  upon  my  head : 
To  thee  it  shall  descend  witli  better  quiet. 
Better  opinion,  better  confirmation  ; 
For  all  the  soil  of  the  achievement  goes 
With  me  into  the  earth.     It  seem'd  in  me, 
But  as  an  honour  snatch'd  with  boisterous  hand ; 
And  I  had  many  living,  to  upbraid 
My  gain  of  it  by  their  assistances ; 
Which  daily  grew  to  quarrel,  and  to  bloodshed. 
Wounding  supposed  peace :  all  these  bold  fears. 
Thou  see'st,  with  peril  I  have  answered : 
For  all  my  reign  hath  been  but  as  a  scene 
Acting  that  argument ;  and  now  my  death 
Changes  the  mode :  for  what  in  rae  was  purchas'd. 
Falls  upon  thee  in  a  more  fairer  sort ; 
So  thou  the  garland  wear'st  successively. 
Yet,  though    thou    stand'st    more   sure    than    I 

could  do, 
Thou  art  not  firm  enough,  since  griefs  are  green  ; 
And  all  my  friends,  which  thou  must  make  thy 

friends. 
Have  but  their  stings  and  teeth  newly  ta'en  out ; 
By  whose  fell  working  I  was  first  advanc'd, 

80dr 


And  by  whose  power  I  well  might  lodge  a  fear 

To  be  again  displac'd :  which  to  avoid, 

I  cut  some  oflf ;  and  had  a  purpose  now 

To  lead  out  many  to  the  Holy  Land  ; 

Lest  rest,  and  lying  still,  might  make  them  look 

Too  near  unto  my  state.     Therefore,  my  Harry, 

Bo  it  thy  course,  to  busy  giddy  minds 

With  foreign  quarrels ;  that  action,  hence  borne 

out. 
May  waste  the  memory  of  the  former  days. 
More  would  I,  but  my  lungs  are  wasted  so. 
That  strength  of  speech  is  utterly  denied  me. 
How  I  came  by  the  crown,  O  God,  forgive ! 
And  grant  it  may  with  thee  in  true  peace  live ! 

P.  Hen.  My  gracious  liege. 
You  won  it,  wore  it,  kept  it,  gave  it  me ; 
Then  plain,  and  right,  must  my  possession  be: 
Which  I,  with  more  than  with  a  common  pain, 
'Gainst  all  the  world  will  rightfully  maintain. 

Enter  Prince  John  of  Lancaster,  Warwick, 
Lords,  and  Others. 

K.  Hen.  Look,  look,  here  comes  my  John  of 
Lancaster. 

P.  John.  Health,  peace,  and  happiness,  to  my 
royal  father  ! 

K.  Hen.  Thou  bring'st  me  happiness,  and  peace, 
son  John ; 
But  health,  alack,  with  youthful  wings  is  flown 
From  this  bare,  wither'd  trunk :  upon  thy  sight, 

My  worldly  business  makes  a  period. 

Where  is  my  lord  of  Warwick  ? 

P.  Hen.  My  lord  of  W^arwick ! 

K.  Hen.  Doth  any  name  particular  belong 
Unto  the  lodging  where  I  first  did  swoon  ? 

War.  'T  is  call'd  Jerusalem,  my  noble  lord. 

K.  Hen.  Laud  be  to  God  ! — even  there  my  lifo 
must  end. 
It  hath  been  prophesied  to  me  many  years, 
I  should  not  die  but  in  Jerusalem ; 
Which  vainly  I  suppos'd,  the  Holy  Land ; — 
But,  bear  me  to  that  chamber  ;  there  I  '11  lie ; 
In  that  Jerusalem  shall  Harry  die.  \Exeuni 


I 


ACT  V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENK    f 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I. — Glostershire.     A  Hall  in  Shaixow's 
House. 

Enter  Shallow,  Falstaff,  Bardolpk,  and  Page. 

Shal.  By  cock  and  pye,*''  sir,  jou  shall  not 
away  to-night. What,  Davy,  I  say  ! 

Fal.  You  must  excuse  me,  master  Robert  Shal- 
low. 

Shal.  I  will  not  excuse  you  ;  you  shall  not  be 
excused ;  excuses  shall  not  be  admitted ;  there  is 
no  excuse  shall  serve  ;  you  shall  not  be  excused. — 
Why,  Davy  ! 

Enter  Davy. 

Davy.  Here,  sir. 

Shal.  Davy,  Davy,  Davy, — let  me  see,  Davy ; 
let  me  see  : — yea,  marry,  William  cook,  bid  him 
come  hither. — Sir  John,  you  shall  not  be  excused. 

Davy.  Marry,  sir,  thus  : — those  precepts  cannot 
be  served  ;**  and,  again,  sir, — Shall  we  sow  the 
headland  with  wheat  ? 

Shal.  With  red  wheat,  Davy.  But  for  Wil- 
liam cook ; Are  there  no  young  pigeons  ? 

Davy.  Yes,  sir. Here  is  now  the  smith's  note, 

for  shoeing,  and  plough-irons. 

Shal.  Let  it  be  cast,  and  paid : — sir  John,  you 
shall  not  be  excused. 

Davy.  Now,  sir,  a  new  link  to  the  bucket  must 
needs  be  had : — And,  sir,  do  you  mean  to  stop 
any  of  William's  wages,  about  the  sack  he  lost 
the  other  day  at  Hinckley  fair  ? 

Shal.  He  shall  answer  it : Some  pigeons, 

Davy ;  a  couple  of  short-legged  hens  ;  a  joint  of 
mutton  ;  and  any  pretty  little  tiny  kickshaws,  tell 
William  cook. 

Davy.  Doth  the  man  of  war  stay  all  night,  sir  ? 

Shal.  Yes,  Davy.  I  will  use  him  well :  A  friend 
i'  the  court  is  better  than  a  penny  in  purse.  Use 
his  men  well,  Davy ;  for  they  are  arrant  knaves, 
and  will  backbite. 

Davy.  No  worse  than  they  are  back-bitten,  sir ; 
for  they  have  marvellous  foul  linen. 

Shal.  Well  conceited,  Davy.  About  thy  busi- 
ness, Davy. 

Davy.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  to  countenance  William 
Visor  of  Wincot  against  Clement  Perkes  of  the  hill. 


Shal.  There  are  many  complaints,  Davy,  against 
that  Visor ;  that  Visor  is  an  arrant  knave,  on  my 
knowledge. 

Davy.  I  grant  your  worship,  that  he  is  a  knave, 
sir :  but  yet,  God  forbid,  sir,  but  a  knave  should 
have  some  countenance  at  his  friend's  request.  An 
honest  man,  sir,  is  able  to  speak  for  himself,  when 
a  knave  is  not.  I  have  served  your  worship  truly, 
sir,  this  eight  years  ;  and  if  I  cannot  once  or  twice 
in  a  quarter  bear  out  a  knave  against  an  honest 
man,  I  have  but  a  very  little  credit  with  your  wor- 
ship. The  knave  is  mine  honest  friend,  sir ;  there- 
fore, I  beseech  your  worship,  let  him  be  counte- 
nanced. 

Shal.  Go  to ;  I  say,  he  shall  have  no  wrong. 
Look  about,  Davy.  [Exit  Davy.]  Whare  are  you, 
sir  John  ?  Come,  off  with  your  boots. — Give  me 
your  hand,  master  Bard ol ph. 

Bard.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worship. 

Shal.  I  thank  thee  with  all  my  heart,  kind 
master  Bardolph  : — and  welcome,  my  tall  fellow 
[To  the  Page.]  Come,  sir  John.  [Exit  Shal. 

Fal.  I  '11  follow  you,  good  master  Robert  Shal- 
low. Bardolph,  look  to  our  horses.  [Exeurit  Bard 
and  Page.]  If  I  were  sawed  into  quantities,  I 
should  make  four  dozen  of  such  bearded  hermit's- 
staves  as  master  Shallow.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing 
to  see  the  semblable  coherence  of  his  men's  spirits 
and  his :  They,  by  observing  him,  do  bear  them- 
selves like  foolish  justices  ;  he,  by  conversing  with 
them,  is  turned  into  a  justice-like  serving-man  ; 
their  spirits  are  so  married  in  conjunction  with 
the  participation  of  society,  that  they  flock  to- 
gether in  consent,  like  so  many  wild-geese.  If  I 
had  a  suit  to  master  Shallow,  I  would  humour  his 
men,  with  the  imputation  of  being  near  their 
master :  if  to  his  men,  I  would  curry  with  master 
Shallow,  that  no  man  could  better  command  his 
servants.  It  is  certain,  that  either  wise  bearing, 
or  ignorant  carriage,  is  caught,  as  men  take  dis- 
eases, one  of  another  :  therefore,  let  mefl  take  heed 
of  their  company.  I  will  devise  matter  enough 
out  of  this  Shallow,  to  keep  prince  Harry  in  con 
tinual  laughter,  the  wearing-out  of  six  fashions, 
(which  is  four  terms,  or  two  actions,)  and  he  shall 
laugh  without  intervallums.     0,  it  is  much,  that 

806 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCBNS    H 


a  lie,  with  a  slight  oath,  and  a  jest,  with  a  sad 
brow,  will  do  with  a  fellow  that  never  had  the 
ache  in  his  shoulders  !  0,  you  shall  see  him 
laugh,  till  his  face  be  like  a  wet  cloak  ill  laid  up. 

Shal  [Within:]  Sir  John  ! 

Fal.  I  come,  master  Shallow ;  I  come,  master 
Shallow.  [Exit  Fal. 

SCENE  II. — Westminster.     A  Room  in  the 

Palace. 

Enter  Warwick,  and  the  Lord  Chief  Justice. 

War.^  How  now,  my  lord  chief  justice  ?  whither 

away? 
Ch.  Just.  How  doth  the  king  ? 
War.  Exceeding  well ;  his  cares  are  now  all  ended. 
Ch.  Just.  I  hope,  not  dead. 
War.  He  's  w.ilk'd  the  way  of  nature ; 

And,  to  our  purposes,  he  lives  no  more. 

Ch.  Just.  I  would,  his  majesty  had  call'd  me 
with  him : 
The  service  that  I  truly  did  his  life, 
Ilath  left  me  open  to  all  injuries. 

War.  Indeed,  I  think,  the  young  king  loves 

you  not. 
Ch.  Just.  I  know,  he  doth  not ;  and  do  arm 
myself. 
To  welcome  the  condition  of  the  time  ; 
Which  cannot  look  more  hideously  upon  me 
Than  I  have  drawn  it  in  my  fantasy. 

Enter  Prince  John,  Prince  Humphrey,  Cla- 
rence, Westmoreland,  and  Others. 

War.  Here  come  the  heavy  issue  of  dead  Harry : 
O,  that  the  living  Harry  had  the  temper 
Of  him,  the  worst  of  these  three  gentlemen  ! 
How  many  nobles  then  should  hold  their  places, 
That  must  strike  sail  to  spirits  of  vile  sort! 

Ch.  Just.  Alas  !  I  fear,  all  will  be  overturn'd. 

P.  John.  Good  morrow,  cousin  Warwick. 

P.  Humph.,  Cla.  Good  morrow,  cousin. 

P.  John.  We  meet  like  men  that  had  forgot  to 
speak. 

War.  We  do  remember ;  but  our  argument 
Is  all  too  heavy  to  admit  much  talk. 

P.  John.  Well,  peace  be  with  him  that  hath 
made  us  heavy  1 

Ch.  Just.  Peace  be  with  us,  lest  we  be  heavier ! 

P.  Humph.  0,  good  my  lord,  you  have  lost  a 
friend,  indeed : 
And  I  dare  swear,  you  borrow  not  that  face 
Of  seeming  sorrow  ;  it  is,  sure,  your  own. 
M6 


P.  John.  Though  no  man  be  assur'd  what  grace 
to  find. 
You  stand  in  coldest  expectation  : 
I  am  the  sorrier ;  'would,  't  were  otherwise. 
Cla.  Well,  you  must  now  speak  sir  John  Fal- 
staflf  fair ; 
Which  swims  against  your  stream  of  quality. 
Ch.  Just.  Sweet  princes,  what  I  did,  I  did  in 
honour, 
Led  by  the  impartial  conduct  of  my  soul ; 
And  never  shall  you  see,  that  I  will  beg 
A  ragged  and  forestall'd  remission. — 
If  truth  and  upright  innocency  fail  me, 
I  '11  to  the  king  my  master  that  is  dead. 
And  tell  him  who  hath  sent  me  after  him. 
War.  Here  comes  the  prince. 

Enter  King  Henry  V. 

Ch.  Just.  Good  morrow ;  and  heaven  save  yc  ui 
majesty  1 

King.  This  new  and  gorgeous  garment,  majesty, 
Sits  not  so  easy  on  me  as  you  think. — 
Brothers,  you  mix  your  sadness  with  some  fear : 
This  is  the  English,  not  the  Turkish  court ; 
Not  Amurath  an  Amurath  succeeds, 
But  Harry,  Harry  :  Yet  be  sad,  good  brothers. 
For,  to  speak  truth,  it  very  well  becomes  you ; 
Sorrow  so  royally  in  you  appears. 
That  I  will  deeply  put  the  fashion  on, 
And  wear  it  in  my  heart.     Why  then,  be  sad : 
But  entertain  no  more  of  it,  good  brothers, 
Than  a  joint  burden  laid  upon  us  all. 
For  me,  by  heaven,  I  bid  you  be  assur'd, 
I  '11  be  your  father  and  your  brother  too ; 
Let  me  but  bear  your  love,  I  '11  bear  your  cares. 
Yet  weep,  that  Harry  's  dead  ;  and  so  will  I : 
But  Harry  lives,  that  shall  convert  those  tears, 
By  number,  into  hours  of  happiness. 

P.  John,  <&c.  We  hope  no  other  from  your  ma- 
jesty. 

King.  You  all  look  strangely  on  me : — and  you 
most :  \To  the  Ch.  Just. 

You  are,  I  think,  assur'd  I  love  you  not. 

Ch.  Just.  I  am  assur'd,  if  I  be  measur'd  rightly, 
Your  majesty  hath  no  just  cause  to  hate  me. 

King.  No! 
How  might  a  prince  of  my  great  hopes  forget 
So  great  indignities  you  laid  upon  me  ? 
What !  rate,  rebuke,  and  roughly  send  to  prison 
The  immediate  heir  of  England  !    Was  this  easy ! 
May  this  be  wash'd  in  Lethe,  and  forgotten  ? 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE   IIL 


Ch.  Just.  I  then  did  nse  the  person  of  your 

father ; 
The  image  of  his  power  lay  then  in  me : 
And,  in  the  administration  of  his  law, 
Whiles  I  was  busy  for  the  commonwealth, 
Your  highness  pleased  to  forget  my  place. 
The  majesty  and  power  of  law  and  justice. 
The  image  of  the  king  whom  I  presented, 
And  struck  me  in  my  very  seat  of  judgment; 
Whereon,  as  an  offender  to  your  father, 
I  gave  bold  way  to  my  authority, 
And  did  commit  you.     If  the  deed  were  ill, 
Be  you  contented,  wearing  now  the  garland, 
To  have  a  son  set  your  decrees  at  nought ; 
To  pluck  down  justice  from^your  awful  bench  ; 
To  trip  the  course  of  law,  and  blunt  the  sword 
That  guards  the  peace  and  safety  of  your  person : 
Nay,  more ;  to  spurn  at  your  most  royal  image, 
And  mock  your  workings  in  a  second  body. 
Question  your  royal  thoughts,  make  the  case  yours ; 
Be  now  the  father,  and  propose  a  son : 
Hear  your  own  dignity  so  much  profan'd. 
See  your  most  dreadful  laws  so  loosely  slighted, 
Behold  yourself  so  by  a  son  disdained  ; 
And  then  imagine  me  taking  your  part. 
And,  in  your  powei,  soft  silencing  your  son : 
After  this  cold  considerance,  sentence  me ; 
And,  as  you  are  a  king,  speak  in  your  state, — 
What  I  have  done,  that  misbecame  my  place, 
My  person,  or  my  liege's  sovereignty. 

King.  You  are  right,  justice,  and  you  weigh 

this  well ; 
Therefore  still  bear  the  balance,  and  the  sword  : 
And  I  do  wish  your  honours  may  increase. 
Till  you  do  live  to  see  a  son  of  mine 
Offend  you,  and  obey  you,  as  I  did. 
So  shall  I  live  to  speak  ray  father's  words ; — 
"  Happy  am  I,  that  have  a  man  so  bold. 
That  dares  do  justice  on  my  proper  son  : 
And  not  less  happy,  having  such  a  son, 
That  would  deliver  up  his  greatness  so 
Into  the  hands  of  justice." — You  did  commit  me : 
For  which,  I  do'  commit  into  your  hand 
The  unstained  sword  that  you  have  us'd  to  bear ; 
With  this  remembrance, — That  you  use  the  same 
With  the  like  bold,  just,  and  impartial  spirit. 
As  you  have  done  'gainst  me.    There  is  my  hand ; 
You  shall  be  as  a  father  to  my  youth  : 
Mv  voice  shall  sound  as  you  do  prompt  mine  ear ; 
And  I  will  stoop  and  humble  my  intents 

To  your  well-practis'd,  wise  directions. 

And,  princes  all,  believe  me,  I  beseech  you ; — 


My  father  is  gone  wild  into  his  grave, 
For  in  his  tomb  lie  my  affections ; 
And  with  his  spirit  sadly  I  survive, 
To  mock  the  expectation  of  the  world; 
To  frustrate  prophecies ;  and  to  raze  out 
Rotten  opinion,  who  hath  writ  me  down 
After  my  seeming.     The  tide  of  blood  in  me 
Hath  proudly  flow'd  in  vanity,  till  now : 
Now  doth  it  turn,  and  ebb  back  to  the  sea; 
Where  it  shall  mingle  with  the  state  of  floods. 
And  flow  henceforth  in  formal  majesty. 
Now  call  we  our  high  court  of  parliament: 
And  let  us  choose  such  limbs  of  noble  counsel. 
That  the  great  body  of  our  state  may  go 
In  equal  rank  with  the  best  govern'd  nation ; 
That  war,  or  peace,  or  both  at  once,  may  be 

As  things  acquainted  and  familiar  to  us  ; 

In  which  you,  father,  shall  have  foremost  hand.— 

[To  the  Ch.  Just 
Our  coronation  done,  we  will  accite. 
As  I  before  remember'd,  all  our  state  : 
And  (God  consigning  to  my  good  intents,) 
No  prince,  nor  peer,  shall  have  just  cause  to  say,— 
Heaven  shorten  Harry's  happy  life  one  day. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  IIL— Glostershire.     The  Garden  of 
Shallow's  House. 

Enter  Falstaff,  Shallow,  Silence,  Bardolpii, 
the  Page,  and  Davy. 

Shal.  Nay,  you  shall  see  mine  orchard  :  where, 
in  an  arbour,  we  will  eat  a  last  year's  pippin  of  my 
own  grafting,  with  a  dish  of  carraways,  and  so 
forth  ; — come,  cousin  Silence ;  and  then  to  bed. 

Fal.  'Fore  God,  you  have  here  a  goodly  dwell- 
ing, and  a  rich. 

Shal.  Barren,  barren,  barren  ;  beggars  all,  beg- 
gars all,  sir  John  : — marry,  good  air. — Spread, 
Davy  ;  spread,  Davy :  well  said,  Davy. 

Fal.  This  Davy  serves  you  for  good  uses ;  he  is 
your  serving-man,  and  your  husbandman. 

Shal.  A  good  varlet,  a  good  varlet,  a  very  good 
varlet,  sir  John. — By  the  mass,  I  have  drunk  too 

much  sack  at  supper  : A  good  varlet.  Now  sit 

down,  now  sit  down  : — come,  cousin. 

Sil.  Ah,  sirrah  !  quoth-a, — we  shall 

Do  nothing  but  eat,  and  make  good  cheer,      [Singing 
And  praise  heaven  for  the  merry  year; 
When  flesh  is  cheap  and  females  dear, 
And  lusty  lads  roam  here  and  there, 
So  merrily. 
And  ever  among  so  merrily. 


ACT   r. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    111 


Fal.  There  's  a  merry  heart ! — Good  master 
Silence,  I  'II  give  you  a  health  for  that  anon, 

Shal.  Give  master  Bardolph  some  wine,  Davy. 

Davy.  Sweet  sir,  sit ;  [^Seating  Bard,  and  the 
Page  at  another  table.]  I  '11  be  with  you  anon  : — 

most  sweet  sir,  sit. Master  page,  good  master 

page,  sit :  proface  I''-  What  you  want  in  meat, 
we  '11  have  in  drink.  But  you  must  bear :  The 
heart 's  all.  l^£xit. 

Shal.  Be  merry,  master  Bardolph ; — and  my 
little  soldier  there,  be  merry. 

Sll.  Be  merry,  be  merry,  my  wife  's  as  all  ;*"     \^oinff. 
For  women  are  shrews,  both  short  and  tall : 
'T  is  merry  in  liall,  when  beards  wag  all, 

And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide, 
Be  merry,  be  merry,  &c. 

J^al.  I  did  not  think,  master  Silence  had  been 
a  man  of  this  mettle. 

Sil.  Who  I?  I  have  been  merry  twice  and 
once,  ere  now. 

Re-enter  Davy. 

Davy.  There  is  a  dish  of  leather-coats  for  you. 
[Setting  them  before  Bard. 
Shal.  Davy, — 

Davy.  Your  worship  ? — I  '11  be  with  you  straight. 
[Zb  Bard.] — A  cup  of  wine,  sir  ? 

Sil-  A  cup  of  wine,  that 's  brisk  and  flne,   \  Singing. 
And  drini^  unto  the  leman  mine  ; 
And  a  merry  heart  lives  long-a. 

Fal.  Well  said,  master  Silence. 
Sil.  And  we  shall  be  merry ; — now  comes  in 
the  sweet  of  the  night. 

Fal.  Health  and  long  life  to  you,  master  Silence. 

Sil.  Fill  the  cup,  and  let  it  come ; 

I  '11  pledge  you  a  mile  to  the  bottom. 

Shal.  Honest  Bardolph,  welcome :  If  thou 
wan  test  any  thing,  and  wilt  not  call,  beshrew  thy 
heart. — Welcome,  my  little  tiny  thief;  [To  the 
Page.]  and  welcome,  indeed,  too. — I  '11  drink  to 
master  Bardolph,  and  to  all  the  cavaleroes  about 
London. 

Davy.  I  hope  to  see  London  once  ere  I  die. 

Bard.  An  I  might  see  you  there,  Davy, — 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  you  '11  crack  a  quart  to- 
gether.   Ha !  will  you  not,  master  Bardolph  ? 

Bard.  Yes,  sir,  in  a  pottle  pot. 

Shal.  I  thank  thee : — The  knavo  will  stick  by 
tnee,  I  can  assure  thee  that :  he  will  not  out ;  he 
Is  true  bred. 

Bard.  And  I  '11  stick  by  Itim,  sir. 

.Shfd    Why,  there  spoke  a  king.    Lack  noth- 


ing :  be  merry.  [Knocking  heard.]  Look  who  's  at 
door  there :  Ho !  who  knocks  ?  [Fxit  Davy. 

Fal.  Why,  now  you  have  done  me  right. 

[To  SiL.,  who  drinks  a  bumper. 

Sil.  Do  me  right,  [Singing. 

And  dub  me  knight : 
Samingo. 

Is  't  not  so  ? 

Fal.  'T  is  so. 

Sil.  Is  't  so  ?  Why,  then  say,  an  old  man  can 
do  somewhat. 

Re-enter  Davy 

Davy.  An  it  please  your  worship,  there  's  one 
Pistol  come  from  the  court  with  news. 
Fal.  From  the  court,  let  him  come  in.~- 

Enter  Pistol. 

How  now.  Pistol  ? 

Pist.  God  save  you,  sir  John  1 

Fal.  What  wind  blew  you  hither.  Pistol  ? 

Pist.  Not  the  ill  wind  which  blows  no  man  to 
good. — Sweet  knight,  thou  art  now  one  of  the 
greatest  men  in  the  realm. 

Sil.  By  'r  lady,  I  think  'a  be ;  but  goodinan 
Puff  of  Barson. 

Pist.  Puff? 
Puff  in  th)'^  teeth,  most  recreant  coward  base  ! — 
Sir  John,  I  am  thy  Pistol,  and  thy  friend. 
And  helter-skelter  have  I  rode  to  thee ; 
And  tidings  do  I  bring,  and  lucky  joys. 
And  golden  times,  and  happy  news  of  price. 

Fal.  I  pr'ythee  now,  deliver  them  like  a  man 
of  this  world. 

Pist.  A  foutra  for  the  world,  and  worldings  base ! 
I  speak  of  Africa,  and  golden  joys. 

Fal.  0  base  Assyrian  knight,  what  is  thy  news  ? 
Let  king  Cophetua  know  the  truth  thereof. 

Sil.      And  Kobin  Hood,  Scarlet,  and  John.    [Sings. 

Pist.  Shall  dunghill  curs  confront  the  Helicons  ? 
And  shall  good  nev/s  be  baflSed  ? 
Then,  Pistol,  lay  thy  head  in  Furies'  lap. 

Shal.  Honest   gentleman,    I   know    not  your 
breeding. 

Pist.  Why  then,  lament  therefore. 

Shal.  Give  me  pardon,  sir ; — If,  sir,  you  come 
with  news  from  the  court,  I  take  it,  there  is  but 
two  ways ;  either  to  utter  them,  or  to  conceal 
them.  I  am,  sir,  under  the  king,  in  some  authority 

Pist.    Under    which    king,  Bez(  nian  ?    speak 
or  die. 

Shal.  Under  king  Harry. 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCENE    IV- V. 


Fist.  Harry  the  fourth  ?  or  fifth  ? 

Shal.  Harry  the  fourth. 

Pist.  A  foutra  for  thine  ofiice  ! — 

Sir  John,  thy  tender  lambkin  now  is  king ; 
Harry  the  fifth  's  the  man.     I  speak  the  truth  : 
When  Pistol  lies,  do  this ;  and  fig  me,  like 
The  bragging  Spaniard. 

Fal.  What !  is  the  old  king  dead  ? 

Pist.  As  nail  in  door :  the  things  I  speak,  are 
just. 

Fal.  Away,  Bardolph  ;  saddle  my  horse.  — 
Master  Robert  Shallow,  choose  what  ofiice  thou 
wilt  in  the  land,  't  is  thine.-:— Pistol,  I  will  double- 
charge  thee  with  dignities. 

Bard.  0  joyful  day!  —  I  would  not  take  a 
knighthood  for  my  fortune. 

Pist.  What  ?  I  do  bring  good  news  ? 

Fal.  Carry  master  Silence  to  bed. — Master 
Shallow,  my  lord  Shallow,  be  what  thou  wilt,  I 
am  fortune's  steward.  Get  on  thy  boots  ;  we  '11 
ride  all  night: — O,  sweet  Pistol: — Away,  Bar- 
dolph. [^Exit  Bard.] — Come,  Pistol,  utter  more  to 
me  ;  and,  withal,  devise  something,  to  do  thyself 
good. — Boot,  boot,  master  Shallow  ;  I  know,  the 
young  king  is  sick  for  me.  Let  us  take  any  man's 
horses ;  the  laws  of  England  are  at  my  command- 
ment. Happy  are  they  which  have  been  my 
friends;  and  woe  to  my  lord  chief  justice  ! 

Pist.  Let  vultures  vile  seize  on  his  lungs  also  ! 
"  Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led,"  say  they : 
Why,  here  it  is  :  Welcome  these  pleasant  days. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— London.     A  Street. 

Enter  Beadles,  dragc/ing  in  Hostess  Quickly,  and 
Doll  Tear-sheet. 

Host.  No,  thou  arrant  knave  ;  I  would  I  might 
die,  that  I  might  have  thee  hanged :  thou  hast 
drawn  my  shoulder  out  of  joint. 

1st  Bead.  The  constables  have  delivered  her 
over  to  me ;  and  she  shall  have  whipping-cheer 
enough,  I  warrant  her:  There  hath  been  a  man  or 
two  lately  killed  about  her. 

DgI.  Nut-hook,  nut-hook,  you  lie.  Come  on  ; 
I  '11  tell  thee  what,  thou  damned  tripe-visaged 
rascal ;  an  the  child  I  now  go  with,  do  miscarry, 
thou  hadst  better  thou  hadst  struck  thy  mother, 
thou  paper-faced  villain. 

Host.  O  the  Lord,  that  sir  John  were  come ! 
he  would  make  Ais  a  bloody  day  to  somebody. 
But  I  j)ray  God  the  fruit  of  her  womb  miscarry ! 


\st  Bead.  If  it  do,  you  shall  have  a  dozen  of 
cushions  again  ;  you  have  but  eleven  now.*'  Come, 
I  charge  you  both  go  with  me ;  for  the  man  is 
dead,  that  you  and  Pistol  beat  among  you. 

Dol.  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  thou  thin  man  in  a 
censer !  I  will  have  you  as  soundly  swinged  for 
this,  you  blue-bottle  rogue  !  you  filthy  famished 
correctioner !  if  you  be  not  swinged,  I  '11  forswear 
half-kirtles. 

\st  Bead.  Come,  come,  you  she  knight-errant, 
come. 

Host.  0,  that  right  should  thus  overcome 
might !     Well ;  of  sufferance  comes  ease. 

Dol.  Come,  you  rogue,  come ;  bring  me  to  a 
justice. 

Host.  Ay  ;  come,  you  starved  blood-hound. 

Dol.  Goodman  death  !  goodman  bones ! 

Host.  Thou  atomy  thou  ! 

Dol.  Come,  you  thin  thing ;  come,  you  rascal ! 

\st  Bead.  Very  well.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  public  Place  near  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Enter  Two  Grooms,  strewing  Rushes. 

1st  Groom.  More  rushes,  more  rushes. 
2nd  Groom.  The  trumpets  have  sounded  twice. 
1st  Groom.  It  will  be  two  o'clock  ere  they  come 
from  the  coronation:  Despatch,  despatch. 

\Exeunt  Grooms. 

Enter  Falstaff,  Shallow,  Pistol,  Bardolph, 
and  the  Page. 

FaZ.  Stand  here  by  me,  master  Robert  Shal- 
low ;  I  will  make  the  king  do  you  grace :  I  will 
leer  upon  him,  as  'a  comes  by ;  and  do  but  mark 
the  countenance  that  he  will  give  me. 

Pist.  God  bless  thy  lungs,  good  knight. 

Fal.  Come  here.  Pistol ;  stand  behind  me. — 
0,  if  I  had  had  time  to  have  made  new  liveries, 
I  would  have  bestowed  the  thousand  pound  I  bor- 
rowed of  you.  [To  Shal,]  But 't  is  no  matter; 
this  poor  show  doth  better :  this  doth  infer  the 
zeal  I  had  to  see  him. 

Shal.  It  doth  so. 

Fal.  It  shows  my  earnestness  of  affection. 

Shal.  It  doth  so. 

Fal.  My  devotion. 

Shal.  It  doth,  it  doth,  it  doth. 

Fal.  As  it  were,  to  ride  day  and  night :  ana 
not  to  deliberate,  not  to  remember,  not  to  have 
patience  to  shift  me. 

809 


ACT   V. 


SECOND  jeAKT  OF 


SCENE    v. 


Shal.  It  is  most  certain. 

I'al.  But  to  stand  stained  with  travel,  and  sweat- 
ing with  desire  to  see  him  :  thinking  of  nothing 
else  ;  putting  all  affairs  else  in  oblivion ;  as  if  there 
were  nothing  else  to  be  done,  but  to  see  him. 

Pist.  'T  is  semper  idem,  for  absque  hoc  nihil 
tst ;  'T  is  all  in  every  part. 

Shal.  'T  is  so,  indeed. 

Pist.  My  knight,  I  will  inflame  thy  noble  liver, 
And  make  thee  rage. 

Thy  Doll,  and  Helen  of  thy  noble  thoughts. 
Is  in  base  durance,  and  contagious  prison  ; 
Haul'd  thither 

By  most  mechanical  and  dirty  hand  : — 
Rouse  up  revenge  from  ebon  den  with  fell  A  lecto's 

snake. 
For  Doll  is  in ;  Pistol  speaks  nought  but  truth. 

Fal.  I  will  deliver  her. 

\^Shouts  within,  and  the  Trumpets  sound. 

Pist.  There  roar'd  the  sea,  and  trumpet-clangor 
sounds. 

Enter  the  King  and  his  Train,  the  Chief  Justice 
among  them. 

Fal.  God  save  thy  grace,  king  Hal !  my  royal 
Hal ! 

Pist.  The  heavens  thee  guard  and  keep,  most 
royal  imp  of  fame  ! 

Fal.  God  save  thee,  my  sweet  boy ! 

King.  My  lord  chief  justice,  speak  to  that  vain 

man. 
Ch.  Just.  Have  you  your  wits  ?  know  you  what 

't  is  you  speak  ? 
Fal.  My  king !  my  Jove  !  I  speak  to  thee,  my 

heart  1 
King.  I  know  thee  not,  old  man :  Fall  to  thy 
prayers ; 
How  ill  white  hairs  become  a  fool,  and  jester! 
I  have  long  dream'd  of  such  a  kind  of  man, 
So  surfeit-swell'd,  so  old,  and  so  profane ; 
But,  being  awake,  I  do  despise  my  dream. 
Make  less  thy  body,  hence,  and  more  thy  grace : 
Leave  gormandizing  ;  know,  the  grave  doth  gape 
For  thee  thrice  wider  than  for  other  men  : — 
Reply  not  to  me  with  a  fool-born  jest ; 
Presume  not,  that  I  am  the  thing  I  was : 
For  heaven  doth  know,  so  shall  the  world  perceive, 
That  I  have  turn'd  away  my  former  self; 
So  will  I  those  that  kept  me  company. 
When  thou  dost  hear  I  am  as  I  have  been, 
Approach  me ;  and  thou  shalt  be  as  thou  wast, 
The  tutor  and  the  feeder  of  my  riots : 
810 


Till  then,  I  banish  thee,  on  pain  of  death, — 
As  I  have  done  the  rest  of  my  misleaders, — 
Not  to  come  near  our  person  by  ten  mile. 
For  competence  of  life,  I  will  allow  you ; 
That  lack  of  means  enforce  you  not  to  evil : 
And,  as  we  hear  you  do  reform  yourselves, 
We  will,— according  to  your  strength,  and  quali- 
ties,— 
Give  you  advancement. — Be  it  your  charge,  my 

lord. 
To  see  perform'd  the  tenor  of  our  word. — 
Set  on.  \Fxeunt  King,  and  his  Train. 

Fal.  Master  Shallow,  I  owe  you   a  thousand 
pound. 

Shal.  Ay,  marry,  sir  John ;  which  I  beseech 
you  to  let  me  have  home  with  me. 

Fal.  That  can  hardly  be,  master  Shallow.  Do 
not  you  grieve  at  this  ;  I  shall  be  sent  for  in  pri- 
vate to  him  :  look  you,  he  must  seem  thus  to  the 
world.  Fear  not  your  advancement ;  I  will  be  the 
man  yet,  that  shall  make  you  great. 

Shal.  I  cannot  perceive  how  ;  unless  you  give 
me  your  doublet,  and  stuff  me  out  with  straw.  I 
beseech  you,  good  sir  John,  let  me  have  five  hun- 
dred of  my  thousand. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  will  be  as  good  as  my  word :  this 
that  you  heard,  was  but  a  colour. 

Shal.  A  colour,  I  fear,  that  you  will  die  in,  sir 
John. 

Fal.  Fear  no  colours;  go  with  me  to  dinner. 
Come,  lieutenant  Pistol ; — come,  Bardolph  : — I 
Shall  be  sent  for  soon  at  night. 

Re-enter  Prince  John,  the  Chief  Justice,  OflS- 
cers,  <&c. 

Ch,  Just.  Go,  carry  sir  John  FalstafF  to  tho 
Fleet :  Take  all  his  company  along  with  him. 

Fal.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

Ch.  Just.  I  cannot  now  speak  ;  I  will  hear  you 
soon.     Take  them  away. 
Pist.  Sifortuna  me  tormenta,  spero  me  contenta. 
[Exeunt  Fal.,  Shal.,  Pist.,  Bard.,  Page 
and  Officers. 
P.  John.  I  like  this  fair  proceeding  of  the  king's: 
He  hath  intent,  his  wonted  followers 
Shall  all  be  very  well  provided  for ; 
But  all  are  banish 'd,  till  their  conversations 
Appear  more  wise  and  modest  to  the  world. 
Ch.  Just.  And  so  they  are. 
P.  John.  The  king  hath  call  'd  his  parliament, 

my  lord.  * 

Ch.  Just.  He  hath. 


ACT    V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


SCBNB   T. 


/'.  John.  I  will  lay  odds, — that,  ere  this  year 
expire, 
We  bear  our  civil  swords,  and  native  fire, 


As  far  as  France  ;  I  heard  a  bird  so  sing, 
Whose  music,  to  my  thinking,  pleas'd  the  king. 
Come,  will  you  hence  ?  [Exeunt 


EPILOGUE.— (Spoken  by  a  Dancer.) 


First,  my  fear ;  then,  my  court'sy :  last,  my 
speech.  My  fear  is,  your  displeasure  ;  my  court'sy, 
my  duty  ;  and  my  speech,  to  beg  your  pardons.  If 
you  look  for  a  good  speech  now,  you  undo  me  :  for 
what  I  have  to  say,  is  of  my  own  making ;  and 
what,  indeed,  I  should  say,  will,  I  doubt,  prove 
mine  own  marring.  But  to  the  purpose,  and  so  to 
the  venture. — Be  it  known  to  you,  (as  it  is  very 
well,)  I  was  lately  here  in  the  end  of  a  displeasing 
play,  to  pray  your  patience  for  it,  and  to  promise 
you  a  better.  I  did  mean,  indeed,  to  pay  you  with 
this  ;  which,  if,  like  an  ill  venture,  it  come  unluckily 
home,  I  break,  and  you,  my  gentle  creditoi-s,  lose. 
Here,  I  promised  you,  I  would  be,  and  here  I  com- 
mit my  body  to  your  mercies  :  bate  me  some,  and 
I  will  pay  you  some,  and,  as  most  debtors  do,  pro- 
mise you  infinitely. 

If  my  tongue  cannot  entreat  you  to  acquit  me, 


will  you  command  me  to  use  my  legs  ?  and  yet  that 
were  but  light  payment, — to  dance  outof  your  debt. 
But  a  good  conscience  will  make  any  possible  satis- 
faction, and  so  will  I.  All  the  gentlewomen  here 
have  forgiven  me  ;  if  the  gentlemen  Avill  not,  then 
the  gentlemen  do  not  agree  with  the  gentlewomen, 
which  was  never  seen  before  in  such  an  assembly. 
One  word  more,  I  beseech  you.  If  you  be  not 
too  much  cloyed  with  fat  meat,  our  humble  author 
will  continue  the  story,  with  sir  John  in  it,  and 
make  you  merry  with  fair  Katharine  of  France: 
where,  for  any  thing  I  know,  Falstaff"  shall  die  of 
a  sweat,  unless  already  he  be  killed  with  your  hard 
opinions ;  for  Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  is 
not  the  man.'*  My  tongue  is  weary  ;  when  my  legs 
are  too,  I  will  bid  you  good  night :  and  so  kneei 
down  before  you ; — but,  indeed,  to  pray  for  the 
queen." 


811 


J^OTES  TO  nm  HENRY  THE  EOURTfl. 

(PART   THE   SECOND.) 


«  And  TtolcTst  it/ear  or  gin. 

Fear  is  used  as  danger.    You  hold  it  dangerous  or  sinful 

k)  tell  me  at  once  of  the  death  of  my  son. 
« 

a  Bend'' ring  faint  quittance. 

Quittance  is  return ;  giving  a  faint  return  of  the  blows 
of  his  adversary. 

8 '  Oan  vail  his  stomach. 

To  lose  heart :  to  let  his  spirits  sink  under  the  pressure 
of  calamity. 

*  Whnt  sayi  the  doctor  to  my  water  t 

An  allusion  to  the  method  of  ascertaining  diseases  by  an 
mspection  of  the  urine  of  the  patient ;  a  custom  in  fashion 
long  after  the  time  of  Shakespeare. 

6  /  never  was  manned  with  an  agate  till  now. 

An  agate  appears  to  liave  been  an  expression  to  signify 
anything  diminutive,  though  I  cannot  say  for  what  reason. 
See  note  67  to  Mach  Ado  About  Nothing.  Falstaff's  mean- 
ing is,  1  never  had  so  small  an  attendant  before. 

He  may  heep  it  still  as  a  face-royal,  for  a  barber  shall  never 
earn  sixpence  out  of  it. 

Mr.  Steevens  tells  us — "  Perhaps  this  quibbling  allusion 
is  to  the  English  real,  rial,  or  royal.  The  poet  seems  to 
mean  that  a  barber  can  no  more  earn  sixpence  by  his/oce- 
roijal,  than  by  the  face  stamped  on  the  coin  called  a  royal; 
vhe  one  requiring  as  little  shaving  as  the  other." 

'  To  bear  a  gentleman  in  hand. 
To  bear  in  hand  is  to  keep  in  expectation. 

•  I  bought  him,  in  PauVs. 

St.  Paul's  was  at  that  time  the  common  resort  of  unem- 
ployed, idle,  or  dissolute  people.  It  possessed  a  great  ad- 
vantage for  this  class  of  people,  as  it  partook  so  far  of  the 
lature  of  a  sanctuary  that  no  debtor  could  be  arrested 
leithin  its  precincts.  In  an  old  Collection  of  Proverbs  there 
IS  the  following: — ""Who  goes  to  Westminster  for  a  wife, 
to  St.  Paul's  for  a  man,  and  to  Smithfield  for  a  horse,  may 
m<^\  with  a  whore,  a  knave,  and  a  jade." 
812 


»  And  yet,  in  some  respects,  /grant,  /cannot  go, 
I  cannot  tell. 

That  is,  in  some  respects  I  cannot  pass  current,  am  oo 
jected  to,  and  unappreciated. 

lo  You  are  too  impatient  to  bear  crosses. 

The  justice  appears  to  be  quibbling  here ;  there  is  a  coin 
called  a  cross.  Falstaff  had  asked  for  the  loan  of  a  tliou- 
sand  pounds,  and  the  reply  indicates  that  he  is  too  impetu- 
ous to  bear  reverses,  or,  in  its  pecuniary  sense,  to  be  trusted 
with  money. 

"  /f  /do,fiUip  nw  with  a  three-man  beetle. 

To  fillip  is  to  strike  a  smart  sudden  blow ;  a  three-man 
beetle  is  a  kind  of  huge  mallet,  with  three  handles,  which 
was  used  in  driving  piles. 

"  To  dinner  at  the  Ztibbar^s  head. 

A  colloquial  corruption  of  the  Libbard's  head,  or  more 
probably  of  the  Lombard's  head. 

1'  0  thou  honey-suckle  villain !  wilt  thou  hill  God''s  o^iccrs, 
and  the  Icing'' s  ?    0  thou  honey-seed  rogue  ! 

/loney-suckle  and  honey-seed  are  Mrs.  Quickly's  corrup- 
tions of  Iwmicidal  and  liomicide. 

"  Sn-eap,  i.  e.  a  reprimand,  a  check. 

15  Answer  in  the  effect  of  your  reputation. 

That  is,  answer  in  a  manner  becoming  your  reputation 
and  position  in  society. 

"  Those  that  bawl  out  the  ruvna  of  thy  Unen. 

An  elliptical  phrase,  implying — those  that  bawl  out  o/'the 
ruins  of  thy  linen;  i.  e.  thy  illegitimate  children  wrapt  up 
in  thy  old  shirts. 

"  He  called  me  even  now,  my  lord,  thrmigh  a  red  lattice. 

Red  lattice  at  the  doors  and  windows  were  formerly  th« 
signs  of  an  ale-house.  Hence  tlie  present  chequers.  Bar- 
dolph  had  called  tl  e  page  from  an  ale-house  window. 


NOTES  TO  THE  SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  FOURTH. 


18  Frank,  i.  e.  a  sty. 

"  EpTiesiana,  my  lord. 

An  Ephesian  was  a  cant  term  which  Dr.  Johnson  thinks 
may  have  meant  toper.  Might  it  not  signify  the  same  aa 
Corinthian?  i.  e.  a  frequenter  of  brothels.  The  Pago 
might  have  heard  the  associates  of  Falstaff  called  Ephe- 
sians,  and  have  repeated  the  word  without  understanding 
its  meaning. 

2»  See  if  thou  canst  find  out  Sneak'' s  noise. 

Sneak  was  a  street  musician,  and  the  drawer  requests  his 
companion  to  go  out  and  listen  if  he  can  hear  him  in  the 
neighbourhood.  A  company  of  musicians  was  anciently 
called  a  noise  of  musicians. 

«  By  the  mass,  here  will  be  old  utis. 

Utia  or  utas,  is  an  old  word,  which  Pope  says  was  still 
iu  use  in  some  counties  in  his  time,  signifying  a  merry 
festival.  Thus,  in  A  Contention  between  Liberality  and 
Prodigality,  a  comedy,  1602 : — 

Then  if  you  please,  with  some  roysting  harmony. 
Let  us  begin  the  utas  of  our  ioUitie. 

»2  Tou  are  both  in  good  truth  as  rheumatic. 

Possibly  Mrs.  Quickly  means  splenetic,  though  Mr.  Stee- 
vens  contends  that  rheumatic,  in  the  cant  language  of  the 
time,  signified  capricious,  humorsome. 

=3  WJuit,  with  two  points  on  your  shoulder  ?  much  ! 

The  two  points  on  his  shoulder  were  a  mark  of  his  com- 
mission ;  Doll  means  that  she  would  not  associate  with  one 
of  his  humble  grade.  Much  was  a  common  expression  of 
contempt  at  that  period,  implying,  is  it  likely  ? 

'*  These  villains  will  make  the  word  captain  as  odious  as  the 
word  occupy. 

Occupant  seems  to  have  been  a  term  for  a  woman  of  the 
town,  as  occupier  was  for  a  wencher.  Thus,  in  Marston's 
Satires,  1599  :— 

•  He  with  his  occupant 


Are  cling'd  so  close,  like  dew-worms  in  the  morne, 
That  he  '11  not  stir. 

This  word  is  used  with  diiferent  senses  in  the  foUov/ing 
jest  from  Wits,  Fits,  and  Fancies,  1614: — "One  threw 
stones  at  an  yll-favor'd  old  woman's  owle,  and  the  old 
woman  said :  Faith  (sir  knave)  you  are  well  occupy'^d,  to 
throw  stones  at  my  poore  owle,  that  doth  you  no  harme. 
Yea  marie  (answered  the  wag)  so  would  you  be  better 
occupy^d  too  (I  wisse)  if  you  were  young  again  and  had  a 
better  face." 

^^  Have  we  not  Hiren  here  ? 

The  language  of  Pistol  appears  to  be  made  up  of  allu- 
sions to,  and  passages  from  many  plays  which  were  then, 
doubtless,  familiar  to  the  play-goer,  but  are  now  chiefly 
either  lost  or  forgotten.  The  line  above  is  probably  a 
q-iotat.'on  from  Peele's  play,  which  has  now  perished, 
called  Ths  Turkish  Mahomet,  and  Hyren  the  fair  Greek. 
Mr.  Toilet  observes,  that  in  Adam's  Spiritual  Navigator, 
&c.,  1615,  there  is  the  following  passage  :  "  There  be  sirens 
in  the  sea  of  the  world.    Syrens  ?    Hirens,  as  they  are  now 


called.    What  a  number  of  these  syrens,  hirens    30cka 
trices,  courteghiana, — in  plain  English,  harlots, — swirame 
amongst  us  ?" 

28  Compare  with  Ccesa^'s  and  tvith  Cannibals. 

Pistol  used  Cannibals  as  a  blunder  for  Ilannibals.  The 
preceding  lines  arc  a  burlesque  quotation  from  Marlow's 
play  of  Tamerlanu'' s  Conquests  ;  or  the  Scythian  Shepherds 

^  Feed,  and  be  fat,  my  fair  Calipolis. 

This  is  a  burlesque  on  a  line  in  an  old  play,  entitled 
The  Battel  of  Alcazar,  &c.,  in  which  Muley  Mahomet 
enters  to  his  wife  with  lion's  flesh  on  his  sword,  and 
exclaims : — 

Feed  then,  and  faint  not,  my  faire  Calypolis. 

28  Hei/,  i.  e.  fist. 

2'  Know  we  not  Galloway  nags. 

Common  hacks.  Pistol  means,  I  know  you  for  com- 
mon hacks ;  you  have  not  strength  or  courage  to  execute 
your  threat. 

3"  And,  look,  whether  the  fiery  Trigon,  his  man,  be  not  lisping 
to  his  master'' s  old  tables. 

Trigonum  igneum,  is  the  astronomical  term  when  the 
upper  planets  meet  in  a  fiery  sign.  Wavburton  would 
read,  clasping  to  his  master's  old  tables ;  i.  e.  kissing  Fal- 
staflf's  cast  off  mistress.  But  lisping  may  be  right ;  Bar- 
dolph  was  probably  drunk,  and  miglit  lisp  a  little  in  his 
courtship.  The  old  table-book  was  a  counsel-keeper,  9 
preserver  of  secrets,  and  so  also  was  Mrs.  Quickly. 

31  Glendower  is  dead. 

Glendower  did  not  die  until  after  Henry  the  Fourth , 
but  the  date  and  place  of  his  death  have  not  been  correctly 
ascertained.  It  is  traditionally  stated  that  he  was  buried 
in  the  Cathedral  of  Bangor,  where  a  grave,  under  the  great 
window  in  the  south  aisle  wall,  is  still  pointed  out  as  the 
place  of  his  interment. 

S2  By  the  rood,  i.  e.  the  image  of  Christ  on  the  cross 

33  Bona-robas,  i.  e.  ladies  of  pleasur<». 

3*  I  saw  hvm  break  Skogan^s  head. 

In  Ben  Jonson's  masque.  The  Fortunate  Isles,  is  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  this  Skogan  :  — 

-  Scogan  ?  what  was  he  ? 


Oh,  a  fine  gentleman,  and  a  master  of  arts 
Of  Henry  tfie  Fourths  times,  that  made  disguises 
For  tlie  king's  sous,  and  writ  in  ballad  royal 
Daintily  well.  • 

SIS  Clapped  V  the  clout,  i.  e.  hit  the  wliite  mark. 


3»  A  caliver, 

A  caliver  was  smaller  and  lighter  than  a  musket.  Sir 
John  means,  that  although  Wart,  as  a  feeble  undersized 
man,  is  unfit  for  a  musketeer,  yet,  armed  with  a  lightei 
weapon,  he  may  do  good  service. 

813 


^  I  was  tJien  Sir  Dagonet  in  Arthur's  sTww. 

It  is  doubted  whether  Shakespeare  means  the  justice  to 
say  that  he  performed  the  part  of  Sir  Dagonet,  the  fool, 
in  the  interlude  o?  King  Arthur ;  or  whether  he  repre- 
sented Sir  Dagonet  in  a  show  of  archery  which  was  given, 
not  at  Clement's  Inn,  but  at  Mile-End  Green.  A  society 
of  archers  calling  themselves  Arthur''s  Knights,  existed 
In  Shakespeare's  time,  who  used  to  give  exhibitions  of 
archery,  and  Master  Shallow  might  have  been  a  mem- 
ber, and  tlie  representative  of  Sir  Dagonet.  Mr.  Douce 
Bays, — "  We  see,  therefore,  that  Shakespeare,  having  loth 
these  shows  in  his  recollection,  has  made  Shallow,  a  talka- 
tive simpleton,  refer  to  them  indistinctly,  and  that  probably 
by  design,  and  with  a  due  attention  to  the  nature  of  his 
character." 

38  And  the  feats  he  hath  done  about  Turnhull-street. 

Tui'nlmll-street  was  notorious  for  houses  of  ill-fame. 
Nash,  in  Fierce  FenniUsse,  his  Supplication,  &c.,  com- 
mends the  sisters  of  Turnbull-street  to  the  patronage  of 
the  Devil.  And  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Scornful 
Lady : — "  Here  has  been  such  a  hurry,  such  a  din,  such 
dismal  drinking,  swearing,  &c.,  we  have  all  lived  in  a  per- 
petual Turnbull-street.'''' 

s«  Over-scutched  huswives. 

Dr.  Johnson  thinks  that  over-scutched  means  dirty  or 
grimed.  That  Shallow  visited  mean  houses,  and  boasted 
his  accomplishments  to  dirty  women.  Eay,  however, 
among  his  north-country  words,  says  that  over-scutched 
housewife  means  a  strumpet. 

«>  They  were  his  fancies,  or  his  good-nights. 

Fancies  and  good-nights  were  the  titles  of  little  poems, 
songs,  or  epigrams. 

*»  Makes  it  apprehensive,  quick,  forgetive 

Apprehensive,  is  quick  of  understanding ;  forge-tive,  a 
word  made  ivom.  forge  ;  to  devise  ;  inventive,  imaginative. 

«  A  mere  lioard  of  gold  kept  by  a  devil. 

Falstaff  alludes  to  an  ancient  superstition,  that  all 
mines  of  gold  and  jewels  were  guarded  by  evil  spirits. 
In  a  book  by  Edward  Fenton,  entitled,  Certaine  Secrete 
Wonders  of  Nature,  &c.,  1569  : — "  There  appeare  at  this 
daymany  strange  visions  and  wicked  spirites  in  the  metal- 
mines  of  the  Greate  Turke." — "  In  the  mine  at  Anne- 
burg  was  a  niettal  sprite  which  killed  twelve  workmen ; 
the  same  causing  the  rest  to  forsake  the  myne,  albeit  it 
was  very  riche." 

■•5  Hath  wrought  the  mure  that  should  confine  it  in. 

Mure  is  the  wall ;  the  agitation  of  his  mind  had  wrought 
or  worn  out  the  head  that  contained  it.  Tlio  same  thought 
irt  more  clearly  expresued  in  Daniel's  Covil  Wars,  &c.. 
Book  IV.— 

As  that  the  walls  worn  thin,  permit  the  mind 
To  look  out  thorow,  and  his  frailtie  find. 

*<  The  people  fear  me  ;  for  tliey  do  observe 
Unfather'^d  heirs,  d;c. 

TiO fear  me  is  ised  for  make  me  afraid.     I  fear  the  peo- 
814 


pie,  for  they  observe  unfathered  heirs,  i.  e.  equivocal 
births,  productions  not  brought  forth  according  to  th« 
known  laws  of  nature.  It  was  thought  that  great  changes 
or  disasters  in  a  kingdom  were  usually  preceded  by  prodi- 
gies and  unnatural  events. 

*^  Golden  rigol,  i.  e.  golden  circle. 

<^  Freserving  life  in  mecT  cine  potable. 

An  opinion  anciently  prevailed  that  the  incorruptibility 
of  gold  might  be  communicated  to  the  body  impregnated 
with  it. 

*">  By  cock  andpye. 

Cock  is  a  corruption  of  the  sacred  name  ;  thus  in  the  old 
interludes  we  have  cock''s-bones,  cock^s-wounds,  cocWs-lody, 
cocFs-passion,  by  cock''s-mother,  &c.  The  pie  is  a  table  or 
rule  in  the  old  Koman  oflSces,  showing  how  to  find  out  the 
service  which  is  to  be  read  upon  each  day. 

*8  Those  precepts  cannot  be  served. 
A  precept  is  a  justice's  warrant. 

*»  Froface,  i.  e.  Italian  from  profaceio ;  much  good  may 
it  do  you. 

*»  Be  merry,  be  merry,  my  wife 's  as  all. 

That  is,  as  all  women  are,  she  is  a  shrew  like  the  rest  of 
them ;  according  to  this  not  very  gallant  ballad. 

^^  If  it  do  you  sluill  have  a  dozen  of  cushions  again  ;  you  ha  ve 
but  eleven  now. 

The  beadle  means  that  Doll  had  taken  one  of  the  cush- 
ions to  stuff  out  her  figure,  that  she  might  counterfeit 
pregnancy. 

82  For  Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  is  not  the  man. 

I  have  already  alluded  in  note  8,  first  part  of  Henry  IV., 
to  the  opinion  entertained  by  some  critics  that  Falstaff  was 
originally  called  Oldcastle.  "  Shakespeare,  I  think,"  says 
Mr.  Malone,  "  meant  only  to  say,  that '  Falstaff  may  per- 
haps die  of  his  debaucheries  in  France,'  (having  mentioned 
Falstaff's  death,  he  then,  with  his  usual  licence,  uses  the 
word  in  a  metaphorical  sense,  adding,)  'unless  he  be  al- 
ready killed  by  the  hard  and  unjust  opinions  of  those  who 
imagined  that  tlie  knight's  character  (like  his  predecessor 
in  the  old  play)  was  intended  as  a  ridicule  on  Sir  John 
Oldcastle,  the  good  Lord  Cobham.  This  our  author  dis- 
claims, reminding  the  audience  that  there  can  be  no  ground 
for  such  a  supposition.  I  call  them  (says  he)  hai-d  and 
unjust  opinions,  '  for  Sir  John  Oldcastle  was  no  debauchee, 
but  a  protestant  martyr,  and  our  Falstaff  is  not  the  man  /' 
i.  e.  is  no  representation  of  him,  has  no  allusion  whatever 
to  him." 

s5  FwUl  bid  you  good  night ;  and  so  kneel  dmvn  before  you ; 
but,  indeed,  to  pray  for  the  queen. 

It  was  anciently  a  custom  for  the  actors  at  the  end  of  the 
performance  to  pray  for  their  patrons,  and  most  of  the  old 
interludes  terminate  with  a  prayer  for  the  king,  queen 
house  of  commons,  &c. 


ling  Ipnni  t|f  /iftjj. 


TN  the  construction  of  this  play  Shakespeare  appears  to  have  felt  himself  more  than  usually  confined 
and  fettered  by  the  smallness  of  the  theatres,  and  the  rude  state  of  dramatic  art  in  his  age.  Par- 
ticipating largely  in  the  affection  borne  by  the  English  nation  to  the  memory  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  the 
poet  deeply  regretted  the  poor  and  bare  nature  of  that  medium  through  which  his  drama  was  to  be 
made  known  to  his  countrymen.  Although  it  does  not  rank  among  his  best  and  most  powerful 
plays,  he  has  evidently  bestowed  great  care  upon  it ;  he  was  desirous  that  the  memory  of  his  favourite 
king  should  be  gilded  by  the  brightest  coruscations  of  his  genius,  and  be  embalmed  in  the  glorious 
robes  of  imperishable  poetry.  Anxious  to  do  every  justice  to  the  subject,  Shakespeare,  contrary  to  his 
usual  custom,  has  adopted  a  Chorus  to  prepare  the  minds  of  the  spectators,  to  solicit  indulgence  for 
unavoidable  imperfections  in  representation,  and  to  explain  what  is  supposed  to  pass  between  the 
acts  of  the  drama.  Of  this  innovation  on  the  established  usage  of  the  English  drama,  Dr.  Johnson 
has  said,  "  The  lines  given  to  the  Chorus  have  many  admirers  ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  in  them  a  little 
may  be  praised,  and  much  must  be  foi'given  ;  nor  can  it  be  easily  discovered  why  the  intelligence 
given  by  the  Chorus  is  more  necessary  in  this  play  than  in  many  others  where  it  is  omitted." 

If  we  were  to  transpose  Johnson's  judgment  on  the  beauty  of  the  speeches  given  to  the  Chorus, 
and  say,  in  them  much  must  be  praised  and  a  little  forgiven,  we  should  be  nearer  the  truth.  Some 
explanatory  matter  spoken  occasionally  between  the  acts,  would  doubtless  be  an  improvement  to 
most  of  Shakespeare's  historical  plays,  as  it  would  remove  that  fragmentary  appearance  which  some  of 
them  possess,  and  render  them  more  valuable  as  mediums  of  historical  instruction.  To  the  reader 
fresh  from  the  perusal  of  actual  history,  the  incidents  in  our  poet's  plays  appear  crushed  and  jambed 
together,  and  to  follow  one  another  with  a  supernatural  rapidity,  like  the  line  of  visionary  kings  the 
witches  exhibited  to  Macbeth.  A  little  explanation  between  the  acts  or  scenes  would  remove  this, 
and  the  necessary  links  of  connexion  would  be  restored.  But  because  the  poet  has  not  given  us  in- 
formation when  it  has  been  necessary  elsewhere,  that  furnishes  no  reason  for  his  omission  of  it  here. 
This  play  being  chiefly  the  record  of  a  single  battle,  a  subject  in  itself  more  epic  than  dramatic, 
Shakespeare  employed  the  former  style  to  convey  by  description  that  which  could  not  be  condensed 
into  representation.  This  play  would  be  absolutely  unintelligible,  without  the  accompaniment  of  a 
descriptive  Chorus.  For  instance,  two  years  elapse  between  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts,  that  is,  between 
Henry's  retura  to  England  after  the  victory  at  Agincourt,  and  his  second  expedition  to  France;  still, 
the  fourth  act  terminates  in  France,  and  the  fifth  commences  there,  which  would  give  rise  to  error 
and  confusion,  if  the  Chorus  did  not  play  "  the  interim,  by  remembering  you — 't  is  past." 

It  is  not  an  uncommon  event,  even  in  the  present  day,  for  authors  to  attach  to  their  dramas  an 
introductory  preface  reciting  what  is  supposed  to  have  occurred  before  the  commencement  of  the 
action.  Dr.  Johnson,  though  he  was  an  acute  critic,  and,  notwithstanding  his  occasional  ill-temper 
with  our  poet,  generally  an  appreciative  one,  has  much  underrated  these  speeches  of  the  Chorus. 
They  are  interesting,  vigorous,  and  poetical ;  the  first  eight  lines  of  the  introduction  grand  and  pict- 
aresque,  the  comparison  '>f  "  warlike  Harry,"  prepared  for  conquest,  to  Mars,  with  Famine,  Sword. 

81S 


and  Fire,  leashed  in  like  hounds,  and  crouching  at  his  feet  for  employment,  is  a  very  martial  and 
spiritrstirring  metaphor ;  a  blast  on  war's  brazen  trumpet,  admirably  calculated  to  prepare  the  mind 
for  the  chivalric  display  about  to  be  presented. 

The  poet  has  carefully  elaborated  the  character  of  Henry ;  he  introduces  him  into  three  dramas, 
carries  him  uncontaminated  through  scenes  of  riot  and  dissipation,  represents  him  repenting  his  lost 
hours  with  tears  of  shame  and  affection,  at  the  feet  of  his  father,  and,  on  his  accession  to  the  "  golden 
rigol,''  after  winning  the  good  graces  of  prelates,  nobility,  and  people,  t-.nd  passing  undaunted 
through  a  fearful  ordeal,  such  as  would  have  overwhelmed  niany  a  stout  heart,  leaves  him  on  a  summit 
of  military  glory  more  brilliant  than  had  been  achieved  even  by  his  bravo  and  illustrious  ancestors, 
riie  fine  description  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  of  the  King's  reformation,  and  the  sudden  blaze 
of  those  virtues  and  accomplishments  which  he  was  not  suspected  to  have  possessed,  has  been  aptly 
applied  to  Shakespeare  himself.  Like  Henry,  the  wildness  of  his  youth  promised  not  the  brilliau+ 
performances  of  his  manhood.     With  the  poet,  as  with  the  prince — 

Consideration  like  an  angel  came, 

And  wliipp'd  the  offending  Adam  out  of  him ; 

Leaving  his  body  as  a  paradise, 

To  envelop  and  contain  celestial  spirits. 

The  introductory  dialogue  between  the  two  bishops,  independent  of  its  exquisite  beauty,  easily  and 
naturally  prepares  us  for  the  change  of  the  frolicsome  idle  prince  to  the  serious  and  majestic  king. 

Tlie  mirthful  and  early  pranks  of  Henry  are  not  forgotten  in  this  play ;  his  acceptance  of  the 
glove  of  the  soldier  as  a  challenge,  and  bestowal  of  it  upon  Fluellen,  show  that  his  sportive  disposition 
is  not  extinguished,  but  tempered  by  rank  and  responsibility  of  station.  Still  he  turns  moralist  in 
his. extremity,  and  exclaims  to  his  brother — 

There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out. 

Henry's  claim  upon  France  was  politic  but  ungenerous,  for  that  unhappy  country  was  distracted 
by  internal  broils,  possessed  a  lunatic  for  a  king,  and  was  laid  waste  by  the  furious  contentions  of  its 
own  nobles.  So  far  from  his  having  any  title  to  the  crown  of  France,  his  right  to  the  sovereignty  of 
his  own  country  would  not  bear  examination  ;  and  it  was  to  evade  inquiry,  and  that  his  nobility  might 
not  have  leisure  to  conspire  against  him  in  England,  that  he  led  them  to  war  against  France ;  and 
the  archbishop  encourages  and  justifies  the  design,  that  Henry  may  not  pry  too  closely  into  the  vast 
possessions  of  the  church.     Such  are  the  secret  springs  of  war  and  conquest. 

In  this  play  we  hear  the  last  of  FalstafF;  his  death  is  related  by  Mrs.  Quickly.  We  cannot  help 
feeling  sad  for  the  poor  old  knight,  dying  in  an  inn,  surrounded  only  by  rude  dependents,  and  the 
faithful  hostess,  whom  we  respect  for  her  kind  attachment  to  him  to  the  last.  No  wife  or  child  is  near ; 
no  gentle  kindred  hand  to  do  kind  oflBces  in  the  hour  of  weakness  and  despondency.  In  his  half- 
delirious  moments  his  last  joke  was  made  upon  the  flea  on  Bardolph's  nose,  which  he  said  *'  was  a 
black  soul  burning  in  hell-fire."  The  scene  between  the  Welsh,  Irish,  and  Scotch  captains,,  each 
speaking  in  his  peculiar  paifow,  is  very  humorous,  but  these  three  do  not  amount  to  one  FalstafF.  The 
episode  between  Pistol  and  the  French  soldier,  whom,  by  his  fierce  looks,  he  frightens  into  paying  a 
good  ransom  for  his  life,  is  much  richer ;  but  the  crown  of  mirth  in  this  play  is  where  the  Welshman 
cudgels  Pistol,  and  makes  him  eat  his  leek  for  having  mocked  him  respecting  it.  All  .the  group  that 
surrounded  Falstafi"  are  here  disposed  of;  Bardolph  and  Nym  are  hanged,  the  boy  is  killed  by  the 
flying  French  soldiers  after  the  battle,  Mrs.  Quickly  dies  in  the  hospital,  and  Pistol  sneaks  home  to 
disgrace  and  obscurity. 

Although  there  is  tragic  matter  enough  in  this  play,  it  ends  like  a  comedy — with  a  marriage  of 
convenience.  Henry  espoused  the  princess  Katharine,  on  the  2nd  of  June,  1418,  in  the  church  of 
St.  John,  at  Troyes.  The  next  day,  after  he  had  given  a  splendid  banquet,  it  was  proposed  by  the 
French  that  the  event  should  be  honoured  by  a  series  of  tournaments  and  public  rejoicings.  This 
Henry  would  not  sanction.     "  I  pray,"  said  he  to  the  French  monarch,  "  my  lord  the  king  to  permit, 

SI  A 


KIKG  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


ar.ct  T  ct)niinand  /lis  servants  and  mine  to  be  all  ready  to-morrow  morning  to  go  and  lay  siege  to 
Sens,  wnerem  are  our  enemies  :  there  every  man  may  have  jousting  and  tourneying  enough,  and  may 
give  proof  of  his  prowess ;  for  there  is  no  Jiner  prowess  than  that  of  doing  justice  on  the  wicked^  in 
order  that  tlie  poor  people  may  breathe  and  live^''  In  the  exhibition  of  fcJiis  courage,  activity,  and 
feeling  for  the  lovrer  orders,  lay  the  secret  of  Henry's  popularity.  He  lived  four  years  aftpr  'na 
marnp^f*,  a  period  which  Shakespeare  has  left  unrecorded ;  but  the  death  of  this  heroic  king  was  a 
scene  for  the  poet.  Still  only  in  his  thirty-fourth  year,  a  conqueror  in  the  full  blaze  of  military 
glory,  a  king  beloved  by  his  people  almost  to  idolatry,  the  husband  of  a  young,  beautiful,  aui. 
accomplished  wife,  and  the  father  of  an  infant  son,  this  world  was  to  him  a  derai-paradise,  an  earthly 
Eden;  still  be  breathed  his  last  without  one  complaint,  and  was  himself  calm  and  resigned,  though 
all  around  wept  as  they  promised  to  protect  his  wife  and  child.  The  solemn  pomp  displayed  at  his 
funeral  was  extraordinary ;  no  such  procession  had  hitherto  attended  the  remains  of  any  English 
king.  His  funeral  car  was  preceded  and  flanked  by  a  crowd  of  heralds,  banner-bearers,  and  priests 
clothed  in  white  and  carrying  lighted  torches,  and  it  was  followed  by  some  hundreds  of  knights  and 
esquires  in  black  armour  and  plumes,  with  their  lances  reversed  in  token  of  mourning ;  while,  far  in 
the  rear,  travelled  the  young  widow,  with  a  gorgeous  and  numerous  retinue.  She,  however,  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  inconsolable,  for  she  was  married  again  shortly  after  Henry's  death,  to  a  Welsh 
gentleman,  Sir  Owen  Tudor,  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his  time.  She  brought  him  two  sons,  of 
whom  T'le  eldest,  Edmund,  was  created  earl  of  Richmond,  and  his  son  afterwards  ascended  the  English 
throne,  under  the  title  of  Henry  the  Seventh. 

Rtrry  the  Fifth  was  produced  in  1599 ;  it  was  entered  on  the  Stationers'  books.  A.ugusr  l^iu, 
1600  ;  and  printed  in  the  same  year. 

io»  ttit 


PERSONS    EEPEESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Fifth. 

Appeals,  Act  I.  so.  2.  Act  II.  bc.  2.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8 ;  bc.  6. 
Act  IV.  80. 1 ;  BO.  8 ;  80. 6 ;  sc.  7 ;  bc.  8.    Act  V.  bc  2, 

Duke  of  Gloucestee,  Brother  to  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  III.  sc  1 ;  sc.  6.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ; 

BO.  8 ;  sc.  7 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Duke  of  Bedford,  Brother  to  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  so.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act 

IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Duke  of  Exeter,  Uncle  to  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  so.  2 ;  so.  4.    Act  III.  bc.  1. 
Act  IV.  BC.  8  ;  BC  6 ;  sc.  7 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  so.  2. 

Dc£S  OF  York,  Cousin  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  so.  8. 

Earl  of  Salisbury. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  8. 

Earl  of  Westmoreland. 
•V/jpeara,  Actl.  sc.  2.  Act  II.se.  2.  Act IV.  bc  8.  ActV.BC.2. 

Earl  of  Warwick. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc  2.    Act  IV.  bc.  7 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
Bishop  of  Ely. 

Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Earl  of  Cambridge,  )  ^       .  .        , 

r         o  f  Conspirators  against  the 

Lord  Scroop,  >         -^        .      '^ 

Sir  Thomas  Grey,      )  °* 

Appear,  Act  II.  bc  2. 

Sir  Thomas  Erpingham. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Gower,  an  Officer  in  King  Henry's  army. 

Fluellen,  a  Welsh  Officer. 

Afmttw,  Act  III.  sc  2 ;  sc.  6.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc  7 ;  so.  6. 
Act  V.  80. 1. 

Macmorris,  an  Irish  Officer. 

Jamy,  a  Scotch  Officer. 

Appear,  Act  III.  sc.  2. 

Williams,  a  Soldier. 
JpptarSf  Act  IV.  so.  1 ;  sc.  7 ;  so.  8. 

Bates, 
Court, 
Appear,  Act  IV.  sc  1, 

Nym. 
Bardolph. 
Appear,  Act  II.  so.  1 ;  bo.  8.    Aot  III.  bo.  2. 
818 


w 


Soldiers, 


Pistol. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  bc  8.    Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  so.  6.    Act 
IV.  so.  1 ;  BC.  4.    Act  V.  bc.  1. 

Boy,  attending  on  Nym,  Bardolph,  and  Pistol. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  III.  so.  2.    Act  IV.  so.  4 

An  English  Herald. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  8. 

Charles  the  Sixth,  Kinff  of  France. 
Avveais,  Act  II.  sc.  4.     Act  III.  sc.  5.    Act  V.  bo.  8. 

Lewis,  the  Dauphin. 
Appears,Ko\,\l.  &c.  i.  Act  III. bc 5;  bc.7.  Act IV.  bo. 2;  set 

Duke  of  Bukgundu. 
Appears,  Aot  II.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  2 

Duke  of  Orleans. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  7.    Act  IV.  bo.  2 ;  uc.  ? 

Duke  of  Bourbon. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  5.    Act  IV.  bo.  5. 

The  Constable  of  France. 
Appears,Actll.  sc.4.  Act  III.  sc.  5;  sc  7.  Act  IV.  sc.  5J. .-,... .. 

Lord  Rambures. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  8.    Act  IV.  so.  2 ;  so  fi 

Lord  Grandpree. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Governor  of  Harfleub. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  8. 

MoNTjoY,  a  French  Herald. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  6.    Act  IV.  sc.  3 ;  bu.  i . 

Ambassadors  from  Franob, 
Appear,  Act  I.  so.  2. 

Chorus. 
EntetB  before  each  Act,  and  at  the  conclusio-i  of  the  PJay 

Isabel,  Queen  of  France. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Katherine,  Daughter  of  Charles  and  Isabel. 

Alice,  a  Lady  attending  on  the  Princess  Katherine. 

Appear,  Aot  III.  sc  4.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Hostess,  now  married  to  Pistol. 
Appears,  Act  II.  bc  1 ;  sc  8. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Officers,  French  and  English  Sol- 
diers, Messengers,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE, — At  the  beginning  of  the  Flag  lies  in 
England:  but  afterwards  wholly  in  France. 


ling  leurtj  tijp  l^iftji. 


OHOR  US. 


Enter  Chorus. 

O,  for  a  muse  of  fire,  that  would  ascend 
The  briijhtest  heaven  of  invention ! 
A  kingdom  for  a  stage,  princes  to  act, 
And  monarchs  to  behold  the  swelling  scene ! 
Then  should  the  warlike  Harry,  like  himself, 
Assume  the  port  of  Mars  ;  and,  at  his  heels, 
Leash'd  in  like  hounds,  should  famine,  sword,  and 

fire. 
Crouch  for  employment.     But  pardon,  gentles  all. 
The  flat  unraised  spirit,  that  hath  dar'd, 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold,  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object :  Can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  cram 
Within  this  wooden  O,  the  very  casques. 
That  did  affright  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 
0,  pardon !  since  a  crooked  figure  may 
Attest,  in  little  place,  a  million ; 


And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  accompt, 
On  your  imaginary  forces  work '} 
Suppose,  within  the  girdle  of  these  walls 
Are  now  confin'd  two  mighty  monarchies. 
Whose  high  upreared  and  abutting  fronts 
The  perilous,  narrow  ocean  parts  asunder. 
Piece  out  our  imperfections  with  your  thcughts; 
Into  a  thousand  parts  divide  one  man. 
And  make  imaginary  puissance 
Think,  when  we  talk  of  horses,  that  you  see  them 
Printing  their  proud  hoofs  i'  the  receiving  earth : 
For  't  is  your  thoughts  that  now  must  deck  oui 

kings. 
Carry  them  here  and  there;  jumping  o'er  times; 
Turning  tjie  accomplishment  of  many  years 
Into  an  hour-glass :  For  the  which  supply. 
Admit  me  chorus  to  this  history ; 
Who,  prologue-like,  your  humble  patience  pray, 
Gently  to  hear,  kindly  to  judge,  our  play 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I. — London.     An  Ante-chamber  in  the 
King's  Palace. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  Bishop 
OF  Ely. 

Cant.  My  lord,  I  '11  tell  you, — that  self  bill  is 
urg'd,* 
Which,  in  the  eleventh  year  o'  the  last  king's  reign 
Was  like,  and  1  ad  indeed  against  us  pass'd. 


But  that  the  scambling  and  unquiet  time 
Did  push  it  out  of  further  question. 

Ely.  But  how,  my  lord,  shall  we  resist  it  now  1 
Cant.    It  must  be  thought  on.      If  it  past 
against  us. 
We  lose  the  better  half  of  our  possession : 
For  all  the  temporal  lands,  which  men  devout 
By  testament  have  given  to  the  church, 
Would  they  strip  from  us ;  being  valued  thus,— 

819 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCEUE    II. 


As  much  as  would  maintain,  to  the  king's  honour, 
Full  fifteen  earls,  and  fifteen  hundred  knights ; 
"Six  thousand  and  two  hundred  good  esquires ; 
And,  to  relief  of  lazars,  and  weak  age, 
Of  indigent  faint  souls,  pest  corporal  toil, 
A  hundred  alms-houses,  right  well  supplied ; 
And  to  the  coffers  of  the  king  beside, 
A  thousand  pounds  by  the  year  :  Thus  runs  the  bill. 

Ely.  This  would  drink  deep. 

Cant.  'T  would  drink  the  cup  and  all. 

Ely.  But  what  prevention  ? 

Cant.  The  king  is  full  of  grace,  and  fair  regard. 

Ely.  And  a  true  lover  of  the  holy  church. 

Cant.  The  courses  of  his  youth  promis'd  it  not. 
The  breath  no  sooner  left  his  fether's  body. 
But  that  his  wildness,  mortified  in  him, 
Seem'd  to  die  too :  yea,  at  that  very  moment. 
Consideration  like  an  angel  came, 
And  whipp'd  the  oflfending  Adam  out  of  him  : 
Leaving  his  body  as  a  paradise, 
To  envelop  and  contain  celestial  spirits. 
Never  was  such  a  sudden  scholar  made : 
Never  came  reformation  in  a  flood, 
With  such  a  heady  current,  scouring  faults ; 
Nor  never  Hydra-headed  wilfulness 
So  soon  did  lose  his  seat,  and  all  at  once. 
As  in  this  king. 

Ely.  We  are  blessed  in  the  change. 

Cant.  Hear  him  but  reason  in  divinity, 
And,  all-admiring,  with  an  inward  wish 
You  would  desire,  the  king  were  made  a  prelate  : 
Hear  him  debate  of  commonwealth  affairs, 
You  would  say, — it  hath  been  all-in-all  his  study  : 
List  his  discourse  of  war,  and  you  shall  hear 
A  fearful  battle  render'd  you  in  music : 
Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy, 
The  Gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  unloose, 
Familiar  as  his  garter ;  that,  when  he  speaks. 
The  air,  a  charter'd  libertine,  is  still, 
And  the  mute  wonder  lui'keth  in  men's  ears, 
To  steal  his  sweet  and  honeyed  sentences ; 
So  that  the  art  and  practic  part  of  life 
Must  be  the  mistress  to  this  theuric : 
Which  is  a  wonder,  how  his  grace  should  glean  it, 
Since  lis  addiction  was  to  courses  vain  : 
His  companies  unletter'd,  rude,  and  shallow  ; 
His  hours  fill'd  up  with  riots,  banquets,  sports  ; 
And  never  noted  in  him  any  study, 
Any  retirement,  any  sequestration 
From  open  haunts  and  popularity. 

Ely.  The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle, 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best, 
820 


Neighbour'd  by  fruit  of  baser  quality  ; 
And  so  the  prince  obscur'd  his  contemplation 
Under  the  veil  of  wildness  ;  which,  no  doubt. 
Grew  like  the  summer  grass,  fastest  by  night, 
Unseen,  yet  crescive^  in  his  faculty. 

Cant.  It  must  be  so :  for  miracles  are  ceas'd  ; 
And  therefore  we  must  needs  admit  the  means, 
How  things  are  perfected. 

Ely.  But,  my  good  lord, 

How  now  for  mitigation  of  this  bill 
Urg'd  by  the  commons  ?  Doth  his  majesty 
Incline  to  it,  or  no  ? 

Cant.  He  seems  indifterent ; 

Or,  rather,  swaying  more  upon  our  part, 
Than  cherishing  the  exhibiters  against  us : 
For  I  have  made  an  offer  to  his  majesty, — 
Upon  our  spiritual  convocation  ; 
And  in  regard  of  causes  now  in  hand, 
Which  I  have  open'd  to  his  grace  at  large. 
As  touching  France, — to  give  a  greater  sum 
Than  ever  at  one  time  the  clergy  yet 
Did  to  his  predecessors  part  withal. 

Ely.  How  did  this  offer  seem  receiv'd,  my  lord  \ 

Cant.  With  good  acceptance  of  his  majesty  ; 
Save,  that  there  was  not  time  enough  to  hear 
(As,  I  perceiv'd,  his  grace  would  fain  have  done,) 
The  severals,  and  unhidden  passages. 
Of  his  true  titles  to  some  certain  dukedoms  : 
And,  generally,  to  the  crown  and  seat  of  France, 
Deriv'd  from  Edward,  his  great  grandfather. 

Ely.  What  was  the  impediment  that  broke 
this  off"  ? 

Cant.  The  French  ambassador,  upon  that  instant, 
Crav'd  audience :  and  the  hour,  I  think,  is  come, 
To  give  him  hearing  :  Is  it  four  o'clock  ? 

Ely.  It  is. 

Cant.  Then  go  we  in,  to  know  his  embassy: 
Which  I  could,  with  a  ready  guess,  declare, 
Before  the  Frenchman  speak  a  word  of  it. 

Ely.  I  '11  wait  upon  you ;  and  I  long  to  hear  it. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.    A  Room  of  State  in  the 
same. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  Bedford,  Exe- 
ter, Warwick,  Westmoreland,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

K.  Hen.  Where  is  ray  gracious  lord>4rf  Canter 

bury  ? 
Exe.  Not  here  in  presence. 
K.  Hen.  Send  for  him,  good  uncle. 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFfH. 


SCENE   n. 


West.  Shall   we  call   in  the  ambassador,  my 

liege  ? 
K.  Hen.  Not  yet,  my  cousin  ;  we  would  be  re- 
solv'd, 
Before  we  hear  him,  of  some  things  of  weight, 
That  task  our  thoughts,  concerning  us  and  France, 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and 
Bishop  of  Ely. 

Cant.  God,  and  bis  angels,  guard   youi  sacred 
throne. 
And  make  you  long  become  it! 

K.  Ren.  Sure,  we  thank  you. 

My  learned  lord,  we  pray  you  to  proceed  ; 
And  justly  and  religiously  unfold. 
Why  the  law  Salique,  that  they  have  in  France, 
Or  should,  or  should  not,  bar  us  in  our  claim. 
And  God  forbid,  my  dear  and  faithful  lord, 
That  you  should  fashion,  wrest,  or  bow  your  read- 
ing, 
Or  nicely  charge  your  understanding  soul 
With  opening  titles  miscreate,  whose  right 
Suits  not  in  native  colours  with  the  truth  : 
For  God  doth  know,  how  many,  now  in  health, 
Shall  drop  their  blood  in  approbation 
Of  what  your  reverence  shall  incite  us  to  : 
Therefore  take  heed  how  you  impawn  our  person. 
How  you  awake  the  sleeping  sword  of  war  ; 
We  charge  you  in  the  name  of  God,  take  heed  : 
For  never  two  such  kingdoms  did  contend. 
Without  much  fall  of  blood  ;  whose  guiltless  drops 
Are  every  one  a  woe,  a  sore  complaint, 
'Gainst  him,  whose  wrongs  give  edge  unto  the 

swords 
That  make  such  waste  in  brief  mortality. 
Under  this  conjuration,  speak,  my  lord : 
And  we  will  hear,  note,  and  believe  in  heart, 
Th  t  what  you  speak  is  in  your  conscience  wash'd 
As  pure  as  sin  with  baptism. 

Cant.  Then  hear  me,  gracious  sovereign, — and 
you  peers. 
That  owe  your  lives,  your  faith,  and  services. 
To  this  imperial  throne ; — There  is  no  bar 
To  make  against  your  highness'  claim  to  France, 
But  this,  which  they  produce  from  Pharamond, — 
In  terrain  Salicam  mulieres  nd  succedant, 
"  No  woman  shall  succeed  in  Salique  land  :" 
Which  Salique  land  the  French  unjustly  gloze 
To  be  the  realm  of  France,  and  Pharamond 
The  founder  of  this  law  and  female  bar. 
Yet  their  own  authors  faithfully  affirm. 
That  the  land  Salique  lies  in  Germany, 


Between  the  floods  of  Sala  and  of  Elbe: 

Where  Charles  the  Great,  having   subdued   tbp. 

Saxons, 
There  left  behind  and  settled  certain  French  ; 
Who,  holding  in  disdain  the  German  women. 
For  some  dishonest  manners  of  their  life, 
Establish'd  there  this  law, — to  wit,  no  female 
Should  be  inheritrix  in  Salique  land  ; 
Which  Salique,  as  I  said,  'twixt  Elbe  and  Sala, 
Is  at  this  day  in  Germany  call'd — Meisen. 
Thus  doth  it  well  appear,  the  Salique  law ; 
Was  not  devised  for  the  realm  of  France  : 
Nor  did  the  French  possess  the  Salique  land 
Until  four  hundred  one  and  twenty  years 
After  defunction  of  king  Pharamond, 
Idly  suppos'd  the  founder  of  this  law  ; 
Who  died  within  the  year  of  our  reder  ption 
Four  hundred  twenty-six  ;  and  Charles  the  Great 
Subdued  the  Saxons,  and  did  seat  the  French 
Beyond  the  river  Sala,  in  the  year 
Eight  hundred  five.     Besides,  their  writers  say, 
King  Pepin,  which  deposed  Childerick, 
Did,  as  heir  general,  being  descended 
Of  Blithild,  which  was  daughter  to  king  Clothair, 
Make  claim  and  title  to  the  crown  of  France. 
Hugh  Capet  also, — that  usurp'd  the  crown 
Of  Charles  the  duke  of  Lorain,  sole  heir  male 
Of  the  true  line  and  stock  of  Charles  the  Great,— 
To  fine  his  title  with  some  show  of  truth, 
(Though,  in  pure  truth,  it  was  corrupt  and  naught,) 
Convey'd  himself  as  heir  to  the  lady  Lingare, 
Daughter  to  Charlemain,  who  was  the  son 
To  Lewis  the  emperor,  and  Lewis  the  son 
Of  Charles  the  Great.    Also  king  Lewis  the  tenth, 
Who  was  sole  heir  to  the  usurper  Capet, 
Could  not  keep  quiet  in  his  conscience, 
Wearing  the  crown  of  France,  till  satisfied 
That  fair  queen  Isabel,  his  grandmother. 
Was  lineal  of  the  lady  Ermengare, 
Daughter  to  Charles  the  foresaid  duke  of  Lorain  : 
By  the  which  marriage,  the  line  of  Charles  the  Great 
Was  re-united  to  the  crown  of  France. 
So  that,  as  clear  as  is  the  summer's  sun. 
King  Pepin's  title,  and  Hugh  Capet's  claim, 
King  Lewis  his  satisfaction,  all  appear 
To  hold  in  right  and  title  of  the  female  ; 
So  do  the  kings  of  France  unto  this  day ; 
Howbeit  they  would  hold  up  this  Salique  law, 
To  bar  your  highness  claiming  from  the  female  ; 
And  rather  choose  to  hide  them  in  a  net. 
Than  amply  to  imbare  their  crooked  titles 
Usurp'd  from  you  and  your  progenitors. 

821 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE   It. 


K.  Hen.  May  I,  with  right  and  conscience,  make 

this  claim  ? 
Cant.  The  sin  upon  my  head,  dread  sovereign ; 
For  in  the  book  of  Numbers  is  it  writ, — 
When  the  son  dies,  let  the  inheritance 
Descend  unto  the  daughter.     Gracious  lord, 
Stand  for  your  own ;  unwind  your  bloody  flag ; 
Look  back  unto  your  mighty  ancestors : 
Go,  my  dread  lord,  to  your  great  grandsire's  tomb, 
From  whom  you  claim  ;  invoke  his  warlike  spirit, 
And  your  great  uncle's,  Edward  the  Black  Prince ; 
Who  on  the  French  ground  play'd  a  tragedy, 
Making  defeat  on  the  full  power  of  France ; 
Whiles  his  most  mighty  father  on  a  hill 
Stood  smiling,  to  behold  his  lion's  whelp 
Forage  in  blood  of  French  nobility. 
0  noble  English,  that  could  entertain 
With  half  their  forces  the  full  pride  of  France  ; 
And  let  another  half  stand  laughing  by. 
All  out  of  work,  and  cold  for  action  ! 

Ely.  Awake  remembrance  of  these  valiant  dead. 
And  with  your  puissant  arm  renew  their  feats  : 
You  are  their  heir,  you  sit  upon  their  throne  ; 
The  blood  and  courage,  that  renowned  them. 
Runs  in  your  veins ;  and  my  thrice-puissant  liege 
Is  in  the  very  May-morn  of  his  youth, 
Ripe  for  exploits  and  mighty  enterprizes. 

Exe.  Your  brother  kings  and  monarchs  of  the 
earth 
Do  all  expect  that  you  should  rouse  yourself. 
As  did  the  former  lions  of  your  blood. 

West.  They  know,  your  grace  hath  cause,  and 
means,  and  might ; 
So  hath  your  highness  ;*  never  king  of  England 
Had  nobles  richer,  and  more  loyal  subjects  ; 
Whose  hearts  have  left  their  bodies  here  in  Eng- 
land, 
And  lie  pavilion'd  in  the  fields  of  France. 

Cant.  0,  let  their  bodies  follow,  my  dear  liege. 
With  blood,  and  sword,  and  fire,  to  win  your  right : 
In  aid  whereof,  we  of  the  spiritualty 
Will  raise  your  highness  such  a  mighty  sum, 
As  never  did  the  clergy  at  one  time 
Bring  in  to  any  of  your  ancestors. 

K.  Hen.  We  must  not  only  arm  to  invade  the 
French, 
But  lay  down  our  proportions  to  defend 
Against  the  Scot,  who  will  make  road  upon  us 
With  a.l  advantages. 

Cant.  They  of  those  marches,*  gracious  sove- 
reign, 
Shall  be  a  wall  suflicient  to  defend 
882 


Our  inland  from  the  pilfering  borderers. 

K.  Hen.  We  do  not  mean  the  coursing  snatch 
ers  only, 
But  fear  the  main  intendment  of  the  Scot, 
Who  hath  been  still  a  giddy  neighbour  to  us ; 
For  you  shall  read,  that  my  great  grandfather 
Never  went  with  his  forces  into  France, 
But  that  the  Scot  on  his  unfurnish'd  kingdom 
Came  pouring,  like  the  tide  into  a  breach. 
With  ample  and  brim  fulness  of  his  force ; 
Galling  the  gleaned  land  with  hot  essays; 
Girding  with  grievous  siege,  castles  and  towns ; 
That  England,  being  empty  of  defence, 
Hath  shook,  and  trembled  at  the  ill  neighbour- 
hood. 
Cant.  She  hath  been  then  more  fear'd  than 
harm'd,  my  liege : 
For  hear  her  but  exampled  by  herself, — 
When  all  her  chivalry  hath  been  in  France, 
And  she  a  mourning  widow  of  her  nobles, 
She  hath  herself  not  only  well  defended. 
But  taken,  and  impounded  as  a  stray. 
The  king  of  Scots ;  whom  she  did  send  to  Franco 
To  fill  king  Edward's  fame  with  prisoner  kings ; 
And  make  your  chronicle  as  rich  with  praise, 
As  is  the  ooze  and  bottom  of  the  sea 
With  sunken  wreck  and  sumless  treasuries. 

West.  But  there  's  a  saying,  very  old  and  true, — 
"  If  that  you  will  France  win, 
Then  with  Scotland  first  begin  :" 
For  once  the  eagle  England  being  in  prey. 
To  her  unguarded  nest  the  weasel  Scot 
Comes  sneaking,  and  so  sucks  her  princely  eggs  ; 
Playing  the  mouse,  in  absence  of  the  cat. 
To  spoil  and  havoc  more  than  she  can  eat. 

Exe.  It  follows  then,  the  cat  must  stay  at  home : 
Yet  that  is  but  a  curs'd  necessity ; 
Since  we  have  locks  to  safeguard  necessaries. 
And  pretty  traps  to  catch  the  petty  thieves. 
While  that  the  armed  hand  doth  fight  abroad. 
The  advised  head  defends  itself  at  home  : 
For  government,  though  high,  and  low,  and  lower, 
Put  into  parts,  doth  keep  in  one  concent,' 
Congruing  in  a  full  and  natural  close. 
Like  music. 

Cant.  True :  therefore  doth  heaven  divide 

The  state  of  man  in  divers  functions. 
Setting  endeavour  in  continual  motion ; 
To  which  is  fixed,  as  an  aim  or  butt. 
Obedience :  for  so  work  the  honey  bees ; 
Creatures,  that,  by  a  rule  in  nature,  teach 
The  act  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom. 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENK    U. 


They  have  a  king,  and  oflBcers  of  sorts : 

Where  some,  like  magistrates,  correct  at  home ; 

Others,  like  merchants,  venture  trade  abroad  ; 

Others,  like  soldiers,  armed  in  their  stings. 

Make  boot  upon  the  summer's  velvet  buds ; 

Which  pillage  they  with  merry  march  bring  home 

To  the  tent-royal  of  their  emperor : 

Who,  busied  in  his  majesty,  surveys 

The  singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold  ; 

The  civil  citizens  kneading  up  the  honey  ; 

The  poor  mechanic  porters  crowding  in 

Their  heavy  burdens  at  his  narrow  gate  ;     ' 

The  sad-ey'd  justice,  with  his  surly  hum, 

Delivering  o'er  to  executors  pale 

The  lazy  yawning  drone.     I  this  infer, — 

That  many  things,  having  full  reference 

To  one  concent,  may  work  contrariously ; 

As  many  arrows,  loosed  several  ways. 

Fly  to  one  mark ; 

As  many  several  ways  meet  in  one  town  ; 

As  many  fresh  streams  run  in  one  self  sea  ; 

As  many  lines  close  in  the  dial's  centre ; 

So  may  a  thousand  actions,  once  afoot. 

End  in  one  purpose,  and  be  all  well  borne 

Without  defeat.     Therefore  to  France,  my  liege. 

Divide  your  happy  England  into  four; 

Whereof  take  you  one  quarter  into  France, 

And  you  withal  shall  make  all  Gallia  shake. 

If  we,  with  thrice  that  power  left  at  home, 

Cannot  defend  our  own  door  from  the  dog. 

Let  us  be  worried ;  and  our  nation  lose 

The  name  of  hardiness,  and  policy. 

K.  Hen.  Call  in  the  messengers  sent  from  the 
Dauphin. 
\Exit  an  Attend.  The  King  ascends  his  Throne. 
Now  are  we  well  resolv'd :  and,  by  God's  help ; 
And  yours,  the  noble  sinews  of  our  power, — 
France  being  ours,  we  '11  bend  it  to  our  awe, 
Or  break  it  all  to  pieces  :  Or  there  we  '11  sit, 
»  Ruling,  in  large  and  ample  empery. 

O'er  France,  and  all  her  almost  kingly  dukedoms ; 
Or  lay  these  bones  in  an  unworthy  urn, 
Tombless,  with  no  remembrance  over  them  : 
Either  our  history  shall,  with  full  mouth. 
Speak  freely  of  our  acts  ;  or  else  our  grave. 
Like  Turkish  mute,  shall  have  a  tongueless  mouth, 
Not  worshipp'd  with  a  waxen  epitaph. 

Enter  Ambassadors  of  France.   ' 

Now  are  we  well  prepared  to  know  the  pleasure 
Of  our  fair  cousin  Dauphin  ;  for,  we  hear. 
Your  greeting  is  from  him,  not  from  the  king. 


Amb.  May  it  please  your  majesty,  to  give  ua 
leave 
Freely  to  render  what  we  have  in  charge  ; 
Or  shall  we  sparingly  show  you  far  off 
The  Dauphin's  meaning,  and  our  embassy  ? 

K.  Hen.  We  are  no  tyrant,  but  a  Christian  king : 
Unto  whose  grace  our  passion  is  as  subject, 
As  are  our  wretches  fetter'd  in  our  prisons: 
Therefore,  with  frank  and  with  uncurbed  plam- 

ness, 
Tell  us  the  Dauphin's  mind. 

Amb.  Thus  then,  in  few. 

Your  highness,  lately  sending  into  France, 
Did  claim  some  certain  dukedoms,  in  the  right 
Of  your  great  predecessor,  king  Edward  the  Third. 
In  answer  of  which  claim,  the  prince  our  master 
Says, — that  you  savour  too  much  of  your  youth  : 
And  bids  you  be  advis'd,  there 's  nought  in  France, 
That  can  be  with  a  nimble  galliard  won  ; 
You  cannot  revel  into  dukedoms  there  : 
He  therefore  sends  you,  meeter  for  your  spirit. 
This  tun  of  treasure  ;  and,  in  lieu  of  this. 
Desires  you,  let  the  dukedoms,  that  you  claim. 
Hear  no  more  of  you.     This  the  Dauphin  speaks. 

K.  Hen.  What  treasure,  uncle  ? 

Exe.  Tennis-balls,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  glad,  the  Dauphin  is  so  pleasant 
with  us ; 
His  present,  and  your  pains,  we  thank  you  for : 
When  we  have  match'd  our  rackets  to  these  balls, 
We  will,  in  France,  by  God's  grace,  play  a  set. 
Shall  strike  his  father's  crown  into  the  hazard : 
Tell  him,  he  hath  made  a  match   with  such   a 

wrangler. 
That  all  the  courts  of  France  will  be  disturb'd 
With  chaces.'     And  we  understand  him  well. 
How  he  comes  o'er  us  with  our  wilder  days, 
Not  measuring  what  use  we  made  of  them. 
We  never  valu'd  this  poor  seat  of  England  ;' 
And  therefore,  living  hence,  did  give  ourself 
To  barbarous  licence  :  As  't  is  ever  common. 
That  men  are  merriest  when  they  are  from  home. 
But  tell  the  Dauphin, — I  will  keep  my  state  ; 
Be  like  a  king,  and  show  my  soul  of  greatness, 
When  I  do  rouse  me  in  my  throne  of  France : 
For  that  I  have  laid  by  my  majesty. 
And  plodded  like  a  man  for  working-days ; 
But  I  will  rise  there  with  so  full  a  glory, 
That  I  will  dazzle  all  the  eyes  of  France, 
Yea,  strike  the  Dauphin  blind  to  look  on  us. 
And  tell  the  pleasant  prince, — this  mock  of  his 
Hath  turn'd  his  balls  to  gTin-stones  ;*  and  his  soul 

828 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE   1. 


Shall  stand  sore  charged  for  the  wasteful  vengeance 
That  shall  fly  with  them  :  for  many  a  thousand 

widows 
Shall  this  his  mock  mock  out  of  their  dear  hus- 
bands ; 
Mock  mothers  from  their  sons,  mock  castles  down ; 
And  some  are  yet  ungotten,  and  unborn, 
That  shall  have  cause  to  curse  the  Dauphin's  scorn. 
But  this  lies  all  within  the  will  of  God, 
To  whom  I  do  appeal :  And  in  whose  name, 
Tell  you  the  Dauphin,  I  am  coming  on. 
To  venge  me  as  I  may,  and  to  put  forth 
My  rightful  hand  in  a  well-hallow'd  cause. 
So,  get  you  hence  in  peace  ;  and  tell  the  Dauphin, 
His  jest  will  savour  but  of  shallow  wit, 
When  thousands  weep,  more  than  did  laugh  at 
it.— 


Convey  them  with  safe  conduct. — Fare  you  well, 

[Exeunt  Amh 

Exe.  This  was  a  merry  message. 

K.  Hen.  We  hope  to  make  the  sender  blush  at  it. 
[Descends  from  his  Throne. 
Therefore,  my  lords,  omit  no  happy  hour. 
That  may  give  furtherance  to  our  expedition 
For  we  have  now  no  thought  in  us  but  France  ; 
Save  those  to  God,  that  run  before  our  business. 
Therefore,  let  our  proportions  for  these  wars 
Be  soon  collected ;  and  all  things  thought  upon, 
That  may,  with  reasonable  swiftness,  add 
More  feathers  to  our  wings ;  for,  God  before. 
We  '11  chide  this  Dauphin  at  his  father's  door. 
Therefore,  let  every  man  now  task  his  thought. 
That  this  fair  action  may  on  foot  be  brought. 

[Exeunt 


ACT    II. 


Enter  Chorus. 

Char.  Now  all  the  youth  of  England  are  on  fire. 
And  silken  dalliance  in  the  wardrobe  lies  ; 
Now  thrive  the  armourers,  and  honour's  thought 
Reigns  solely  in  the  breast  of  every  man  : 
They  sell  the  pasture  now,  to  buy  the  horse ; 
Following  the  mirror  of  all  Christian  kings, 
With  winged  heels,  as  English  Mercuries. 
For  now  sits  expectation  in  the  air  ; 
And  hides  a  sword,  from  hilts  unto  the  point, 
With  crowns  imperial,  crowns,  and  coronets, 
Promis'd  to  Harry,  and  his  followers. 
The  French,  advis'd  by  good  intelligence 
Of  this  most  dreadful  preparation, 
Shake  in  their  fear ;  and  with  pale  policy 
Seek  to  divert  the  English  purposes. 
0  England  ! — model  to  thy  inward  greatness, 
Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, — 
What  might'st  thou  do,  that  honour  would  thee  do, 
Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural ! 
But  see  thy  fault !  France  hath  in  thee  found  out 
A  nest  of  hollow  bosoms,  which  he  fills 
With  treacherous  crowns:   and  three  corrupted 

•    men, — 
One,  Richard  earl  of  C^ypbridge  ;  and  the  second, 
Henry  1(  rd  Scroop  of  M&sham  ;  and  the  third, 
824 


Sir  Thomas  Grey,  knight  of  Northumberland, — 
Have,  for  the  gilt  of  France,  (0  guilt,  indeed !) 
Confirm'd  conspiracy  with  fearful  France  ; 
And  by  their  hands  this  grace  of  kings  must  die, 
(If  hell  and  treason  hold  their  promises,) 
Ere  he  take  ship  for  France,  and  in  Southampton, 
Linger  your  patience  on  ;  and  well  digest 
The  abuse  of  distance,  while  we  force  a  play."* 
The  sum  is  paid  ;  the  traitoi-s  are  agreed  ; 
The  king  is  set  from  London ;  and  the  scene 
Is  now  transported,  gentles,  to  Southampton  : 
There  is  the  playhouse  now,  there  must  you  sit 
And  thence  to  France  shall  we  convey  you  safe 
And  bring  you  back,  charming  the  narrow  seas 
To  give  you  gentle  pass  ;  for,  if  we  may. 
We'll  not  offend  one  stomach"  with  our  jjlay 
But,  till  the  king  come  forth,  and  not  till  then, 
Unto  Southampton  do  we  shift  our  scene.    [Exit, 

SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Eastcheap, 

Enter  Ntm  and  Bardolph. 

Bard.  Well  met,  corporal  Nym. 

Nym.  Good  morrow,  lieutenant  Bardo.ph. 

Bard.  What,  are  ancient  Pistol  and  you  friends 

yet? 

Nym.  For  my  part,  I  care  not :  I  say  little ;  but 


ACT    II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SC'ENK    I. 


when  time  shall  serve,  there  shall  be  smiles ; — 
but  that  shall  be  as  it  may.  I  dare  not  fight ; 
but  I  will  wink,  and  hold  out  mine  iron  :  It  is  a 
simple  one ;  but  what  though  ?  it  will  toast  cheese, 
and  it  will  endure  cold  as  another  man's  sword 
will :  and  there  's  the  humour  of  it. 

Bard.  I  will  bestow  a  breakfast,  to  make  you 
friends ;  and  we  '11  be  all  three  sworn  brothers  to 
France  ;'*  let  it  be  so,  good  corporal  Nym. 

Nym.  'Faith,  I  will  live  so  long  as  I  may,  that 's 
the  certain  of  it ;  and  when  I  cannot  live  any 
longer,  I  will  do  as  I  may ;  that  is  my  rest,  that 
is  the  rendezvous  of  it 

Bard.  It  is  certain,  corporal,  that  he  is  married 
to  Nell  Quickly  :  and,  certainly,  she  did  you  wrong ; 
for  you  were  troth-plight  to  her. 

Nym.  I  cannot  tell;  things  must  be  as  they 
may  :  men  may  sleep,  and  they  may  have  their 
throats  about  them  at  that  time ;  and,  some  say, 
knives  have  edges.  It  must  be  as  it  may ;  though 
patience  be  a  tired  mare,  yet  she  will  plod.  There 
must  be  conclusions.     Well,  I  cannot  tell. 

Enter  Pistol  and  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Bard.  Here  comes  ancient  Pistol,  and  his  wife: 
— good  corporal,  be  patient  here. — How  now, 
mine  host  Pistol  ? 

PisU  Base  tike,  call'st  thou  me — host  ? 
Now,  by  this  hand  I  swear,  I  scorn  the  term  ; 
Nor  shall  my  Nell  keep  lodgers. 

Quick.  No,  by  my  troth,  not  long:  for  we  can- 
not lodge  and  board  a  dozen  or  fourteen  gentle- 
women, that  live  honestly  by  the  prick  of  their 
needles,  but  it  will  be  thought  we  keep  a  bawdy- 
house  straight.  [Nym  draws  his  sioord.l^  0  well-a- 
day.  Lady,  if  he  be  not  drawn  now  !  0  Lord  ! 
here  's  corporal  Nyra's — now  shall  we  have  wil- 
ful adultery  and  murder  committed.  Good  lieu- 
tenant Bardolph — good  corporal,  oft'er  nothing 
here. 

Nym.  Pish ! 

Pist.  Pish  for  thee,  Iceland  dogj  thou  prick- 
eared  cur  of  Iceland ! 

Quick.  Good  coiporal  Nym,  show  the  valour 
of  a  man,  and  put  up  thy  sword. 

Nym.  Will  you  shog  off?'*  I  would  have  you 
solus.  [Sheathing  his  sword. 

Pist.  Solus,  egregious  dog  ?     O  viper  vile  ! 
The  solus  in  thy  most  marvellous  face  ; 
The  solus  in  thy  teeth,  and  in  thy  throat, 
And  in  thy  hateful  lungs,  yea,  in  thy  maw,  perdy  ; 
And,  which  is  worse,  within  thy  nasty  mouth ! 

104 


I  do  retort  the  solus  in  thy  bowels : 
For  I  can  take,  and  Pistol's  cock  is  up. 
And  flashing  fire  will  follow. 

Nym.  I  am  not  Barbason ;  you  cannot  conjure 
me.'*  I  have  an  humour  to  knock  you  indif- 
ferently well :  If  you  grow  foul  with  me,  Pistol,  I 
will  scour  you  with  my  rapier,  as  I  may,  in  fair 
terras  :  if  you  would  walk  oft',  I  would  prick  your 
guts  a  little,  in  good  terras,  as  I  may  ;  and  that's 
the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.  0    braggard    vile,   and  daraned   furious 
■wight ! 
The  grave  doth  gape,  and  doting  death  is  near ; 
Therefore  exhale.  [Pist.  and  Nym.  draw. 

Bard.  Hear  me,  hear  me  what  I  say  : — he  that 
strikes  the  first  stroke,  I  '11  run  him  up  to  the 
hilts,  as  I  am  a  soldier.  [^Draws. 

Pist.  An  oath  of  mickle  might;  and  fury  shall 
abate. 
Give  me  thy  fist,  thy  fore-foot  to  me  give ; 
Thy  spirits  are  most  tall. 

Nym.  I  will  cut  thy  throat,  one  time  or  other, 
in  fair  terms  ;  that  is  the  humour  of  it. 

Pist.   Coupe  le  gorge,  that 's  the  word  ? — I  thet 
defy  again 

0  hound  of  Crete,  think'st  thou  my  spouse  to  get  ? 
No ;  to  the  spital  go, 

And  from  the  powdering  tub  of  infamy 
Fetch  forth  the  lazar  kite  of  Cressid's  kind, 
Doll  Tear-sheet  she  by  name,  and  her  espouse ; 

1  have,  and  I  will  hold,  the-  quondam  Quickly 
For  the  only  she ;  and — Pauca,  there  's  enough. 

Enter  the  Boy. 

Boy.  Mine  host  Pistol,  you  must  come  to  my 
master, — and  you,  hostess ; — he  is  very  sick,  and 
would  to  bed. — Good  Bardolph,  put  thy  nose  be- 
tween his  sheets,  and  do  the  oflSce  of  a  warming- 
pan  :  'faith,  he  's  very  ill. 

Bard.  Away,  you  rogue. 

Quick.  By  my  troth,  he  '11  yield  the  crow  a 

pudding  one  of  these  days :  the  king  has  killed 

his  heart. — Good  husband,  come  home  presently. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Quickly  and  Boy 

Bard.  Come,  shall  I  make  you  two  friends  1 
We  must  to  France  together :  Why,  the  devil, 
should  we  keep  knives  to  cut  one  another's  throats  ? 

Pist.  Let  floods  o'erswell.  and  fiends  for  food 
howl  on  1 

Nym.  You  '11  pay  me  the  eight  shillings  I  won 
of  you  at  betting  ? 

Pist.  Base  is  the  slave  that  pays. 

826 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCKNE  n. 


Nym.  That  now  I  \i  ill  have ;  that  's  the  hu- 
mour of  it. 

Pist.  As  manhood  shall  compound  :  Push  home. 

Bard.  By  this  sword,  he  that  makes  the  first 
thrust,  I  '11  kill  him  ;  by  this  sword,  I  will. 

Pist.  Sword  is  an  oath,  and  oaths  must  have 
their  course. 

Bard.  Corporal  Nym,  an  thou  wilt  be  friends, 
be  friends :  an  thou  wilt  not,  why  then  be  enemies 
with  me  too.     Pr'ythee,  put  up. 

Nym  I  shall  have  my  eight  shillings,  I  won  of 
you  at  betting  ? 

Pist.  A  noble  shalt  thou  have,  and  present  pay ; 
\nd  liquor  likewise  will  I  give  to  thee, 
A.nd  friendship  shall  combine,  and  brotherhood : 
I  '11  live  by  Nym,  and  Nym  shall  live  by  me ; — 
Is  not  this  just  ? — for  I  shall  sutler  be 
Unto  the  camp,  and  profits  will  accrue. 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Nym.  I  shall  have  my  noble  ? 

Pist,  In  cash  most  justly  paid. 

Nym.  Well  then,  that  's  the  humour  of  it. 

Bfi-enter  Mrs.  Quickly. 

Quick.  As  ever  you  came  of  women,  come  in 
quickly  to  sir  John :  Ah,  poor  heart !  he  is  so 
shaked  of  a  burning  quotidian  tertian,  that  it  is 
most  lamentable  to  behold.  Sweet  men,  come  to 
him. 

Nym.  The  king  hath  run  bad  humours  on  the 
knight,  that 's  the  even  of  it. 

Pist.  Nym,  thou  hast  spoke  the  right ; 
His  heart  is  fracted,  and  corroborate. 

Nym.  The  king  is  a  good  king :  but  it  must 
be  as  it  may ;  he  passes  some  humours,  and  ca- 
reers. 

Pist.  Let  us  condole  the  knight ;  for,  lambkins, 
we  will  live.  l^IJxeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Southampton.   A  Council- Chamber. 

Enter  Exeter,  Bedford,  and  Westmoreland. 

Bed.  'Fore  God,  his  grace  is  bold,  to  trust  these 

traitors. 
Mxe.  They  shall  be  apprehended  by  and  by. 
West.  How  smooth  and  even   they  do  bear 
themselves !  , 

As  if  allegiance  in  their  bosom  sat. 
Crowned  with  faith,  and  constant  loyalty. 

Bed.  The  king  hath  note  of  all  that  they  intend, 
By  interception  which  they  dream  not  of. 
■Exe.  Nay,  but  the  man  that  was  his  bedfellow, 
8M 


Whom  he  hath  cloy'd  and  grac'd  with  princelj 

favours, — 
That  he  should,  for  a  foreign  purse,  so  sell 
His  sovereign's  life  to  death  and  treachery ! 

Trumpet  sounds.     Enter  King  Henrt,  Scroop 
Cambridge,  Grey,  Lords,  and  Attendants 

K.  Hen.  Now  sits  the  wind  fair,  and  we  wih 
aboard. 
My  lord  of  Cambridge, — and  my    kind    lord   oi 
Masham, — 

And  you,  my  gentle  knight, give   me   yoar 

thoughts  : 
Think  you  not,  that  the  powers  we  bear  with  us, 
Will  cut  their  passage  through  the  force  of  France 
Doing  the  execution,  and  the  act, 
For  which  we  have  in  head  assembled  them  ? 
Scroop,  No  doubt,  my  liege,  if  each  man  do  his 

best. 
K.  Hen.  I  doubt  not  that :  since  we  are  well 
persuaded. 
We  carry  not  a  heart  with  us  from  hence, 
That  grows  not  in  a  fair  consent  with  ours ; 
Nor  leave  not  one  behind,  that  doth  not  wish 
Success  and  conquest  to  attend  on  us. 

Cam.  Never  was  monarch    better   fear'd    and 
lov'd, 
Than  is  your  majesty  :  there  's  not,  I  think,  a  sub- 
ject. 
That  sits  in  heart-grief  and  uneasiness 
Under  the  sweet  shade  of  your  government. 
Orey.  Even  those,  that  were  your  father's  ene- 
mies, 
Have  steep'd  their  galls  in  honey ;  and  do  serve 

you 
With  hearts  create  of  duty  and  of  zeal. 
K.  Hen.  We  therefore  have  great  cause  of  thank- 
fulness ; 
And  shall  forget  the  office  of  our  hand. 
Sooner  than  quittance  of  desert  and  merit. 
According  to  the  weight  and  worthiness. 

Scroop.  So  service  shall  with  steeled  sinews  toil 
And  labour  shall  refresh  itself  with  hope. 
To  do  your  grace  incessant  services. 

IT.  Hen.  We  judge  no  less. — Uncle  of  Exeter, 
Enlarge  the  man  committed  yesterday. 
That  rail'd  against  our  person  :  we  consider, 
It  was  excess  of  wine  that  set  him  on  ; 
And,  on  his  more  advice,  we  pardon  him.'* 

Scroop.  That 's  mercy,  but  too  much  security  ' 
Let  him  be  punish'd,  sovereign ;  lest  example 
Breed,  by  his  sufierance,  more  of  such  a  kind. 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE  n. 


K.  Hen.  0,  let  us  yet  be  merciful. 
Cam.  So  may  your  highness,  and  yet  punish  too. 
Orey.  Sir,  you  show  great  mercy,  if  you  give 
him  life, 
After  the  taste  of  much  correction. 
K.  Hen.   Alas,  your  too  much  love  and  care 
of  me 
Are  heavy  orisons  'gainst  this  poor  wretch. 
If  little  faults,  proceeding  on  distemper, 
Shall  not  be  wink'd  at,  how  shall  we  stretch  our 

eye, 
When  capital  crimes,  chew'd,  swallow'd,  and  di- 
gested, 
Appear  before  us  ? — We  '11  yet  enlarge  that  man. 
Though  Cambridge,  Scroop,  and  Grey, — in  their 

dear  care. 
And  tender  preservation  of  our  person, — 
Would  have    him    punish'd.    And    now    to    our 

French  causes; 
Who  are  the  late  commissioners  ?'® 

Cam.  I  one,  my  lord  ; 
Your  highness  bade  me  ask  for  it  to-day. 
Scroop.  So  did  you  me,  my  liege. 
Grey.  And  me,  my  royal  sovereign. 
K.  Hen.  Then,  Richard,  earl  of  Cambridge,  there 
is  yours ; — 
There  yours,  lord  Scroop  of  Masham ; — and,  sir 

knight, 
Grey  of  Northumberland,  this  same  is  yours  : — 
Read  them  ;  and  know,  I  know  your  worthiness. — 
My  lord  of  Westmoreland, — and  uncle  Exeter, — 
We  will  aboard  to-night. — Why,  how  now,  gentle- 
men ? 
What  see  you  in  those  papers,  that  you  lose 
So  much  complexion  ? — look  ye,  how  they  change ! 
Their  cheeks  are  paper. — Why,  what  read   you 

there, 
That  hath  so  cowarded  and  chas'd  your  blood 
Out  of  appearance  ? 

Cam.  I  do  confess  my  fault ; 

And  do  submit  me  to  your  highness'  mercy. 
Grey.  Scroop.  To  which  we  all  appeal. 
K.  Hen.  The  mercy,  that  was  quick  in  us  but 
late, 
By  your  own  counsel  is  suppress'd  and  kill'd  : 
You  must  not  dare,  for  shame,  to  talk  of  mercy  ; 
For  your  own  reasons  turn  into  your  bosoms. 
As  dogs  upon  their  masters,  worrying  them. — 
See  you,  my  princes,  and  my  noble  peers. 
These  English  monsters  !    My  lord  of  Cambridge 

here, — 
You  know,  how  apt  our  love  was,  to  accord 


To  furnish  him  with  all  appertinents 
Belonging  to  his  honour ;  and  this  man 
Hath,  for  a  few  light  crowns,  lightly  eonspir'd, 
And  sworn  unto  the  practices  of  France, 
To  kill  us  here  in  Hampton  :  to  the  which. 
This  knight,  no  less  for  bounty  bound  to  us 
Than    Cambridge    is, — hath    likewise    sworn.— 

ButO! 
What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  lord  Scroop ;  thou  cruel; 
Ingrateful,  savage,  and  inhuman  creature ! 
Thou,  that  didst  bear  the  key  of  all  my  counsels. 
That  knew'st  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul, 
That  almost  might'st  have  coin'd  me  into  gold, 
Would'st  thou  have  practis'd  on  me  for  thy  use  ? 
May  it  be  possible,  that  foreign  hire 
Could  out  of  thee  extract  one  spark  of  evil, 
That  might  annoy  my  finger  ?  't  is  so  strange. 
That,  though  the  truth  of  it  stands  off  as  gross 
As  black  from  white,  my  eye  will  scarcely  see  it, 
Treason,  and  murder,  ever  kept  together. 
As  two  yoke-devils  sworn  to  cither's  purpose. 
Working  so  grossly  in  a  natural  cause. 
That  admiration  did  not  whoop  at  them  : 
But  thou,  'gainst  all  proportion,  didst  bring  in 
Wonder,  to  wait  on  treason,  and  on  murder : 
And  whatsoever  cunning  fiend  it  was. 
That  wrought  upon  thee  so  preposterously, 
H'  ath  got  the  voice  in  hell  for  excellence : 
And  other  devils,  that  suggest  by  treasons, 
Do  botch  -and  bungle  up  damnation 
With  patches,  colours,  and  with  forms  being  fetch'd 
From  glistering  semblances  of  piety; 
But  he,  that  temper'd  thee,  bade  thee  stand  up, 
Gave  thee  no    instance   why  thou    should'st   do 

treason. 
Unless  to  dub  thee  with  the  name  of  traitor. 
If  that  same  daemon,  that  hath  gull'd  thee  thus, 
Should  with  his  lion  gait  walk  the  whole  world. 
He  might  return  to  vasty  Tartar''  back. 
And  tell  the  legions — I  can  never  win 
A  soul  so  easy  as  that  Englishman's. 
0,  how  hast  thou  with  jealousy  infected 
The  sweetness  of  affiance  !  Show  men  dutiful  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou  :  Seem  they  grave  and  learned  \ 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  Come  they  of  noble  family  \ 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  Seem  they  religious  ? 
Why,  so  didst  thou :  Or  are  they  spare  in  diet ; 
Free  from  gross  passion,  or  of  mirth,  or  anger ; 
Constant  in  spirit,  not  swerving  with  the  blood ; 
Garnish'd  and  deck'd  in  modest  complement ; 
Not  working  with  the  eye,  without  the  ear. 
And,  but  in  purged  judgment,  trusting  neither? 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    111, 


S  ch,  and  so  finely  bolted,  didst  thou  seem  : 
And  thus  thy  fall  hath  left  a  kind  of  blot, 
To  mark  the  full-fraught  man,  and  best  endued, 
With  some  suspicion.     I  will  weep  for  thee ; 
For  this  revolt  of  thine,  methinks,  is  like 
Another  fall  of  man. — Their  faults  are  open, 
Arrest  them  to  the  answer  of  the  law  : — 
And  God  acquit  them  of  their  practices  ! 

Exe.  I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name 
of  Richard  earl  of  Cambridge. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of 
Henry  lord  Scroop  of  Masham. 

I  arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  by  the  name  of 
Thomas  Grey,  knight  of  Northumberland. 

Scroop.  Our  purposes  God  justly  hath  discover'd : 
And  I  repent  my  fault,  more  than  my  death; 
Which  I  beseech  your  highness  to  forgive, 
Although  my  body  pay  the  price  of  it. 

Cam.  For  me, — the  gold  of  France  did  not  se- 
duce ; 
Although  I  did  admit  it  as  a  motive, 
The  sooner  to  efiect  what  I  intended : 
But  God  be  thanked  for  prevention ; 
Which  I  in  sufferance  heartily  will  rejoice. 
Beseeching  God,  and  you,  to  pardon  me. 

Grey.  Never  did  faithful  subject  more  rejoice 
At  the  discovery  of  most  dangerous  treason. 
Than  I  do  at  this  hour  joy  o'er  myself. 
Prevented  from  a  damned  enterprise  : 
My  fault,  but  not  my  body,  pardon,  sovereign. 
K.  Hen.  God  quit  you  in   his   mercy  I    Hear 
your  sentence. 
You  have  conspir'd  against  our  royal  person, 
Join'd  with  an  enemy  proclaim'd,  and  from  his 

coffers 
Receiv'd  the  golden  earnest  of  our  death  ; 
Wherein   you   would    have  sold   your   king    to 

slaughter, 
His  princes  and  his  peers  to  servitude. 
His  subjects  to  oppression  and  contempt, 
And  his  whole  kingdom  unto  desolation. 
Touching  our  person,  seek  we  no  revenge  ; 
But  we  our  kingdom's  safety  must  so  tender. 
Whose  ruin  you  three  sought,  that  to  her  laws 
We  do  deliver  you.     Get  you  therefore  hence, 
Poor  miserable  wretches,  to  your  death  : 
The  taste  whereof,  God,  of  his  mercy,  give  you 
Patience  to  endure,  and  true  repentance 
Of  all  your  dear  offences  ! — Bear  them  hence. 

\Exeunt  Conspirators,  guarded. 
Now,  lords,  for  France ;  the  enterprise  whereof 
Shall  bo  to  you,  as  us,  like  gl^ious. 
828 


We  doubt  not  of  a  fair  and  lucky  war  •, 

Since  God  so  graciously  liath  brought  to  light 

This  dangerous  treason,  lurking  in  our  way. 

To  hinder  our  beginnings,  we  doubt  not  now. 

But  every  rub  is  smoothed  on  our  way. 

Then,  forth,  dear  countrymen ;  let  us  deliver 

Our  puissance  into  the  hand  of  God, 

Putting  it  straight  in  expedition. 

Cheerly  to  sea ;  the  signs  of  war  advance  : 

No  king  of  England,  if  not  king  of  France.  [^Exeunt 

SCENE  III. — London.     Mrs.  Quickly's  House  in 
Eastcheap. 

Enter  Pistol,  Mrs.  Quickly,  Nym,  Bardolph, 
and  Boy. 

Quick.  Pr'ythee,  honey-sweet  husband,  let  mc 
bring  thee  to  Staines. 

Pist.  No;  for  my  manly  heart  doth  yearn. — 
Bardolph,  be  blithe; — Nym,  rouse  thy  vaunting 

veins ; 
Boy,  bristle  thy  courage  up  ;  for  Falstaff  he  is  dead 
And  we  must  yearn  therefore. 

Bard.  'Would,  I  were  with  him,  wheresome'ci 
he  is,  either  in  heaven,  or  in  hell ! 

Quick.  Nay,  sure,  he  's  not  in  hell ;  he  is  in 
Arthur's  bosom,  if  ever  man  went  to  Arthur's 
bosom.  'A  made  a  finer  end,  and  went  away, 
an  it  had  been  any  christom  child  ;  'a  parted  even 
just  between  twelve  and  one,  e'en  at  turning  o' 
the  tide  :'^  for  after  I  saw  him  fumble  with  the 
sheets,  and  play  with  flowers,  and  smile  upon  his 
fingers'  ends,  I  knew  there  was  but  one  way  ;  for 
his  nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  pen,  and  'a  babbled 
of  green  fields.  How  now,  sir  John  ?  quoth  I : 
what,  man !  be  of  good  cheer.  So  'a  cried  out — • 
God,  God,  God  1  three  or  four  times :  now  I,  tc 
comfort  him,  bid  him,  'a  should  not  think  of  God  ; 
I  hoped,  there  was  no  need  to  trouble  himself 
with  any  such  thoughts  yet :  So,  'a  bade  me  lay 
more  clothes  on  his  feet :  I  put  my  hand  into  the 
bed,  and  felt  them,  and  they  were  as  cold  as  any 
stone ;  then  I  felt  to  his  knees,  and  so  upward, 
and  upward,  and  all  was  as  cold  as  any  stone. 

Nym.  They  say,  he  cried  out  of  sack. 

Quick.  Ay,  that  'a  did. 

Bard.  And  of  women. 

Quick.  Nay,  that  'a  did  not. 

Boy.  Yes,  that  'a  did;  and  said,  they  were 
devils  incarnate. 

Quick.  'A  could  never  abide  carnation ;  't  waa 
a  colour  he  never  liked. 


ACT   U. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE  rv. 


Boy.  'A  said  once,  the  devil  would  have  him 
about  women. 

Quick.  'A  did  in  some  sort,  indeed,  handle  wo- 
men :  but  then  he  was  rheumatic  ;'^  and  talked 
of  the  whore  of  Babylon. 

Boy.  Do  you  not  remember,  'a  saw  a  flea  stick 
upon  Bardolph's  nose ;  and  'a  said,  it  was  a  black 
soul  burning  in  hell-fire  ? 

Bard.  Well,  the  fuel  is  gone,  that  maintained 
that  fire :  that  's  all  the  riches  I  got  in  his  ser- 
vice. 

Nym.  Shall  we  shog  ofi"?  the  king  will  be  gone 
from  Southampton. 

Pist.  Come,  let 's  away. — My  love,  give   me 
thy  lips. 
Look  to  my  chattels,  and  my  moveables  : 
Let  senses  rule ;  the  word  is,  "  Pitch  and  pay ;" 
Trust  none ; 

For  oaths  are  straws,  men's  faiths  are  wafer-cakes, 
And  hold-fast  is  the  only  dog,  my  duck ; 
Therefore,  caveto  be  thy  counsellor. 
Go,  clear  thy  crystals. — Yoke-fellows  in  arms. 
Let  us  to  France  !  like  horse-leeches,  my  boys  ; 
To  suck,  to  suck,  the  very  blood  to  suck ! 

Boy.  And  that  is  but  unwholesome  food,  they 
say. 

Pist.  Touch  her  soft  mouth,  and  march. 

Bard.  Farewell,  hostess.  [Kissing  her. 

Nym,.  I  cannot  kiss,  that  is  the  humour  of  it ; 
but  adieu. 

Pist.  Let  housewifery  appear ;  keep  close,  I 
thee  command. 

Quick.  Farewell ;  adieu.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — France.     A  Room  in  the  French 
King's  Palace. 

Enter  the  French  King  attended  ;  the  Dauphin, 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  the  Constable,  and 
Others. 

Fr.  King.  Thus  come  the  English  with  full 
power  upon  us  ; 
And  more  than  carefully  it  us  concerns, 
lo  answer  royally  in  our  defences. 
Therefore  the  dukes  of  Berry,  and  of  Bretagne, 
Of  Brabant,  and  of  Orleans,  shall  make  forth, — 
And  you,  prince  Dauphin, — with  all  swift  despatch. 
To  lice,  and  new  repair,  our  towns  of  war. 
With  men  of  courage,  and  with  means  defendant : 
For  England  his  approaches  makes  as  fierce, 
As  waters  to  the  sucking  of  a  gulph. 
It  fits  us  then,  to  be  as  provident 


As  fear  may  teach  us,  out  of  late  examples 
Left  by  the  fatal  and  neglected  English 
Upon  our  fields. 

Dau.  My  most  redoubted  father, 

It  is  most  meet  we  arm  us  'gainst  the  foe : 
For  peace  itself  should  not  so  dull  a  kingdom, 
(Though  war,  nor  no  known   quarrel,    were   in 

question,) 
But  that  defences,  musters,  preparations. 
Should  be  maintain'd,  assembled,  and  collected, 
As  were  a  war  in  expectation. 
Therefore,  I  say,  't  is  meet  we  all  go  forth, 
To  view  the  sick  and  feeble  parts  of  France : 
And  let  us  do  it  tvith  no  show  of  fear ; 
No,  with  no  more,  than  if  we  heard  that  England 
Were  busied  with  a  Whitsun  morris-dance : 
For,  my  good  liege,  she  is  so  idly  king'd. 
Her  sceptre  so  fantastically  borne 
By  a  vain,  giddy,  shallow,  humorous  youth, 
That  fear  attends  her  not. 

Con.  0  peace,  prince  Dauphin  ! 

You  are  too  much  mistaken  in  this  king : 
Question  your  grace  the  late  ambassadors, — 
With  what  great  state  he  heard  their  embassy. 
How  well  supplied  with  noble  counsellors, 
How  modest  in  exception,  and,  withal. 
How  terrible  in  constant  resolution, — 
And  you  shall  find,  his  vanities  fore-spent 
Were  but  the  outside  of  the  Roman  Brutus, 
Covering  discretion  with  a  coat  of  folly ; 
As  gardeners  do  with  ordure  hide  those  roots 
That  shall  first  spring,  and  be  most  delicate. 

Dau.  Well,  't  is  not  so,  my  lord  high  constable, 
But  though  we  think  it  so,  it  is  no  matter: 
In  cases  of  defence,  't  is  best  to  weigh 
The  enemy  more  mighty  than  he  seems, 
So  the  proportions  of  defence  are  fill'd  ; 
Which,  of  a  weak  and  niggardly  projection," 
Doth,  like  a  miser,  spoil  his  coat,  with  scanting 
A  little  cloth. 

Fr.  King.  Think  we  king  Harry  strong ; 

And,  princes,  look,  you  strongly  arm  to  meet  him. 
The  kindred  of  him  hath  been  flesh'd  upon  us ; 
And  he  is  bred  out  of  that  bloody  strain, 
That  haunted  us  in  our  familiar  paths : 
Witness  our  too  much  memorable  shame. 
When  Cressy  battle  fatally  was  struck. 
And  all  our  princes  captiv'd,  by  the  hand 
Of  that  black  name,  Edward  Black  Prince  of  Wales , 
Whiles   that  his    mountain   sire, — on    mountain 

standing. 
Up  in  the  air,  crown'd  with  the  golden  sun, — 

829 


ACT  n. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE   IT. 


Saw  his  heroical  seed,  and  smil'd  to  see  him 
Mangle  the  work  of  nature,  and  deface 
The  patterns  that  by  God  and  by  French  fathers 
Had  twenty  years  been  made.     This  is  a  stem 
Of  that  victorious  stock ;  and  let  us  fear 
The  native  mightiness  and  fate  of  him. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Ambassadors  from  Henry  King  of  England 
Do  crave  admittance  to  your  majesty. 

Fr.  King.  We  'II  give  them  present  audience. 
Go,  and  bring  them, 

[Exeunt  Mess,  and  certain  Lords. 
You  see,  this  chase  is  hotly  folio w'd,  friends. 
Dau.  Turn  head,  and  stop  pursuit :  for  coward 
dogs 
Most  spend  their  mouths,  when  what  they  seem 

to  threaten, 
Runs  far  before  them.     Good  my  sovereign, 
Take  up  the  English  short ;  and  let  them  know 
Of  what  a  monarchy  you  are  the  head  : 
Self-love,  my  liege,  is  not  so  vile  a  sin 
As  self-neglecting. 

Re-enter  Lokds  with  Exeter  and  Train. 

Fr.  King.  From  our  brother  England  ? 

Exe.  From  him ;  and  thus  he  greets  your  ma- 
jesty. 
He  wills  you,  in  the  name  of  God  Almighty, 
That  you  divest  yourself,  and  lay  apart 
The  borrow'd  glories,  that,  by  gift  of  heaven, 
By  law  of  nature,  and  of  nations,  'long 
To  him,  and  to  his  heirs ;  namely,  the  crown. 
And  all  wide-stretched  honours  that  pertain, 
By  custom  and  the  ordinance  of  times, 
Unto  the  crown  of  France.    That  you  may  know, 
'T  is  no  sinister,  nor  no  awkward  claim, 
Pick'd  from  the  worm-holes  of  long-vanish'd  days. 
Nor  from  the  dust  of  old  oblivion  rak'd, 
He  sends  you  this  most  memorable  line, 

[Gives  a  paper. 
In  every  branch  truly  demonstrative : 
Willing  you,  overlook  this  pedigree  : 
And,  when  you  find  him  evenly  deriv'd 
From  his  most  fam'd  of  famous  ancestors, 
Edward  the  Third,  he  bids  you  then  resign 
Your  crown  and  kingdom,  indirectly  held 
From  him  the  native  and  true  challenger. 

Fr.  King.  Or  else  what  follows  ? 

Exe.  Bloody  constraint ;  for  if  you  hide  the  crown 
Even  in  your  hearts,  there  will  he  rake  for  it : 
A.nd  therefore  in  fierce  tempest  is  he  coming, 
880 


In  thunder,  and  in  earthquake,  like  a  Jove ; 
(That,  if  requiring  fail,  he  will  compel ;) 
And  bids  you,  in  the  bowels  of  the  Lord, 
Deliver  up  the  crown ;  and  to  take  mercy 
On  the  poor  souls,  for  whom  this  hungiy  war 
Opens  his  vasty  jaws :  and  on  your  head 
Turns  he  the  widows'  tears,  the  orphans'  cries. 
The  dead  men's  blood,  the  pining  maidens'  groans 
For  husbands,  fathei-s,  and  betrothed  lovers. 
That  shall  be  swallow'd  in  this  controversy. 
This  is  his  claim,  his  threat'ning,  and  my  message 
Unless  the  Dauphin  be  in  presence  here, 
To  whom  expressly  I  bring  greeting  too. 

Fr.  King.  For  us,  we  will  consider  of  this  fur 
ther: 
To-morrow  shall  you  bear  our  full  intent 
Back  to  our  brother  England. 

Dau.  For  the  Dauphin, 

I  stand  here  for  him  :  What  to  him  from  England  ? 

Exe.  Scorn,  and  defiance ;  slight  regard,  contempt, 
And  any  thing  that  may  not  misbecome 
The  mighty  sender,  doth  he  prize  you  at. 
Thus  says  my  king :  and,  if  your  father's  highness 
Do  not,  in  grant  of  all  demands  at  large. 
Sweeten  the  bitter  mock  you  sent  his  majesty, 
He  '11  call  you  to  so  hot  an  answer  for  it. 
That  caves  and  womby  vaultages  of  France 
Shall  chide  your  trespass,  and  return  your  mock 
In  second  accent  of  his  ordnance. 

Dau.  Say,  if  my  father  render  fair  reply. 
It  is  against  my  will :  for  I  desire 
Nothing  but  odds  with  England  ;  to  that  end. 
As  matching  to  his  youth  and  vanity, 
I  did  present  him  with  those  Paris  balls. 

Exe.  He  '11  make  your  Paris  Louvre  shake  for  it, 
Were  it  the  mistress  court  of  mighty  Europe  : 
And,  be  assur'd,  you  '11  find  a  difference, 
(As  we,  his  subjects,  have  in  wonder  found,) 
Between  the  promise  of  his  greener  days. 
And  these  he  masters  now  ;  now  he  weighs  time, 
Even  to  the  utmost  grain ;  which  you  shall  read 
In  your  own  losses,  if  he  stay  in  France. 

Fr.  King.  To-morrow  shall  you  know  our  mind 
at  full. 

Exe.  Despatch  us  with  all  speed,  lest  that  our 
king 
Come  here  himself  to  question  our  delay ; 
For  he  is  footed  in  this  land  already. 

Fr.  King.  You  shall  be  soon  despatch'd  with  fair 
conditions : 
A  night  is  but  small  breath,  and  little  pause, 
To  answer  matters  of  this  consequence.    [Exeunt 


Kf:t  TO, 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENK   a. 


>10T  III. 


Enter  Chorus. 

Chor.  Thus  with  imagin'd  wing  our  swift  scene 
flies, 
In  motion  of  no  less  celerity 
Than  that  of  thought.  Suppose,  that  you  have  seen 
The  well-appointed  king  at  Hampton  pier 
Embark  his  royalty ;  and  his  brave  fleet 
With  silken  streamera  the  young  Phoebus  fanning. 
Play  with  your  fancies ;  and  in  them  behold, 
Upon  the  hempen  tackle,  ship-boys  climbing  : 
Hear  the  shrill  whistle,  which  doth  order  give 
To  sounds  confus'd  :  behold  the  threaden  sails. 
Borne  with  the  invisible  and  creeping  wind. 
Draw  the  huge  bottoms  through  the  furrow'd  sea. 
Breasting  the  lofty  surge :  0,  do  but  think, 
Y^ou  stand  upon  the  rivage,"  and  behold 
A  city  on  the  inconstant  billows  dancing ; 
For  so  appears  this  fleet  majestical, 
Holding  due  course  to  Harfleur.     Follow,  follow  ! 
Grapple  your  minds  to  sternage  of  this  navy  ; 
A-ud  leave  your  England,  as  dead  midnight,  still. 
Guarded  with  grandsires,  babies,  and  old  women. 
Either  past,  or  not  arriv'd  to,  pith  and  puissance : 
For  who  is  he,  whose  chin  is  but  enrich'd 
With  one  appearing  hair,  that  will  not  follow 
These  cull'd  and  choice-drawn  cavaliers  to  Franco  ? 
Work,  work  your  thoughts,  and  therein  see  a  siege : 
Behold  the  ordnance  on  their  carriages, 
With  fatal  mouths  gaping  on  girded  Harfleur. 
Suppose,  the  ambassador  from  the  French  comes 

back; 
Tells  Harry — that  the  king  doth  ofier  him 
Katharine  his  daughter ;  and  with  her,  to  dowry, 
Some  petty  and  unprofitable  dukedoms. 
The  ofier  likes  not :  and  the  nimble  gunner 
With  linstock  now  the  devilish  cannon  touches, 

[Alarum ;  and  Chambers  go  off. 
Aud  down  goes  all  before  them.     Still  be  kind. 
And  eke  out  our  performance  with  your  mind. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Before  Harfieur. 

Alarums.   Enter  King  Henry,  Exeter,  Bedford, 
Gloster,  and  Soldiers,  with  Scaling  Ladders. 

S.  Hen.    Once  more   unto  the  breach,  dear 
friends,  once  more ; 


Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead  I 

In  peace,  there  's  nothing  so  becomes  a  man, 

As  modest  stillness,  and  humility  : 

But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears. 

Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger ; 

Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 

Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favour'd  rage : 

Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect ; 

Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head. 

Like  the  brass  cannon  ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it, 

As  fearfully,  as  doth  a  galled  rock 

O'erhand  and  jutty  his  confounded  base,'° 

Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 

Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide ; 

Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 

To  his  full  height ! — On,  on,  you  noblest  English, 

Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof! 

Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 

Have,  in  these  parts,  from  morn  till  even  fought, 

And  sheath'd  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument, 

Dishonour  not  your  mothers  ;  now  attest, 

That  those,  whom  you  call'd  fathers,  did  beget  you  ! 

Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood. 

And  teach  them  how  to  war ! — And  you,  good 

yeomen, 
Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture  ;  let  us  swear 
That  you  are  worth  your  breeding :  which  I  doubt 

not; 
For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips, 
Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game  's  afoot ; 
Follow  your  spirit :  and,  upon  this  charge. 
Cry — God  for  Harry !  England !  and  Saint  George ! 
[Exeunt.     Alarum,  and  Chambers  go  off. 

SCENE  \l.—The  Same. 

Forces  pass  over;  then  enter  Nym,  BardoCph, 
Pistol,  and  Boy. 

Bard.  On,  on,  on,  on,  on  !  to  the  breach,  to  the 

breach  ! 
N^ym.  'Pray  thee,  corporal,  stay  ;    the  knocks 
are  too  hot ;  and,  for  mine  own  part,  I  have  not  a 
case  of  lives  :^'  the  humour  of  it  is  too  hot,  that  is 
the  very  plain-song  of  it. 

881 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    II. 


Pist.  The  plain-song  is  most  just ;  for  humours 
do  abound ; 
Knocks  go  and  come  to  all  and  some ; 
God's  vassals  feel  the  same. 

And  sword  and  shield, 
In  bloody  field, 
Doth  win  immortal  fame. 
Boy.  'Would  I  were  in  an  alehouse  in  London  ! 
would  give  all  my  fame  for  a  pot  of  ale  and  safety. 
PisU  And  I : 

If  wishes  would  prevail  with  me. 
My  purpose  should  not  fail  with  me. 
But  thither  would  I  hie. 
Boy.  As  duly,  but  not  as  truly, 
As  bird  doth  sing  on  bough. 

Enter  Flxtellen. 

Flu.  Got's  plood! — Up  to  the  preaches,  you 
rascals  1  will  you  not  up  to  the  preaches  ? 

[Driving  them  forward. 

Pist.  Be  merciful,  great  duke,  to  men  of  mould! 
Abate  thy  rage,  abate  thy  manly  rage! 
Abate  thy  rage,  great  duke  ! 
Good  bawcock,  bate  thy  rage !  use  lenity,  sweet 
chuck ! 

Nym.  These  be  good  humours ! — your  honour 
wins  bad  humours. 

[Exeunt  Nym.,  Pist.,  and  Bar.,  followed  by  Flu. 

Boy.  As  young  as  I  am,  I  have  observed  these 
three  swashers.  I  am  boy  to  them  all  three :  but 
all  they  three,  though  they  would  serve  me,  could 
not  be  man  to  me ;  for,  indeed,  three  such  antics 
do  not  amount  to  a  man.  For  Bardolph, — he  is 
white-livered,  and  red-faced  ;  by  the  means  where- 
of, 'a  faces  it  out,  but  fights  not.  For  Pistol, — ^he 
hath  a  killing  tongue,  and  a  quiet  sword ;  by  the 
means  whereof  'a  breaks  words,  and  keeps  whole 
weapons.  For  Nym, — he  hath  heard,  that  men 
of  few  words  are  the  best  men ;  and  therefore  he 
scorns  to  say  his  prayers,  lest  'a  should  be  thought 
a  coward ;  but  his  few  bad  words  are  match'd 
with  as  few  good  deeds ;  for  'a  never  broke  any 
man's  head  but  his  own ;  and  that  was  against  a 
post,  when  he  was  drunk.  They  will  steal  any 
thing,  »Tid  call  it, — purchase.  Bardolph  stole  a 
lute  case ;  bore  it  twelve  leagues,  and  sold  it  for 
three  halfpence.  Nym,  and  Bardolph,  are  sworn 
brothers  in  filching ;  and  in  Calais  they  stole  a 
fire-shovel :  I  knew,  by  that  piece  of  service,  the 
men  would  carry  coals.**.  They  would  have  me 
as  familiar  with  men's  pockets,  as  their  gloves  or 
fheir  handkerchiefs :  which  makes  much  against 
882 


my  manhood,  if  I  should  take  from  another's 
pocket,  to  put  into  mine ;  for  it  is  plain  pocketing 
up  of  wrongs.  I  must  leave  them,  and  seek  some 
better  service :  their  villany  goes  against  my  weak 
stomach,  and  therefore  I  must  cast  it  up. 

[Exit  Boy. 

Re-enter  Fluellek,  Gower  following. 

Gow.  Captain  Fluellen,  you  must  come  present 
ly  to  the  mines ;  the  duke  of  Gloster  would  speak 
with  you. 

Flu.  To  the  mines  !  tell  you  the  duke,  it  is  not 
so  good  to  come  to  the  mines  :  For,  look  you,  the 
mines  is  not  according  to  the  disciplines  of  the 
war ;  the  concavities  of  it  is  not  sufiicient ;  for, 
look  you,  th'  athversary  (you  may  discuss  unto 
the  duke,  look  you,)  is  dight  himself  four  yards 
under  the  countermines  :'*  by  Cheshu,  I  think,  'a 
will  plow  up  all,  if  there  is  not  better  directions. 

Gow.  The  duke  of  Gloster,  to  whom  the  order 
of  the  siege  is  given,  is  altogether  directed  by  an 
Irishman ;  a  very  valiant  gentleman,  i'  faith. 

Flu.  It  is  captain  Macmorris,  is  it  not  ? 

Gow.  I  think,  it  be. 

Flu.  By  Cheshu,  he  is  an  ass,  as  in  the  'orld: 
I  will  verify  as  much  in  his  peard  :  he  has  no 
more  directions  in  the  true  disciplines  of  the  wars, 
look  you,  of  the  Roman  disciplines,  than  is  a 
puppy-dog. 

Enter  Macmorris  and  Jamt,  at  a  distance. 

Gow.  Here  'a  comes :  and  the  Scots  captain, 
captain  Jamy,  with  him. 

Flu.  Captain  Jamy  is  a  marvellous  falorous 
gentleman,  that  is  certain ;  and  of  great  expedi- 
tion, and  knowledge,  in  the  ancient  wars,  upon 
my  particular  knowledge  of  his  directions :  by 
Cheshu,  he  will  maintain  his  argument  as  well  as 
any  military  man  in  the  'orld,  in  the  disciplines  Oi 
the  pristine  wars  of  the  Romans. 

Jamy.  I  say,  gud-day,  captain  Fluellen. 

Flu.  God-den  to  your  worship,  goot  captain 
Jamy. 

Gow.  How  now,  captain  Macmorris  ?  have  you 
quit  the  mines  ?  have  the  pioneers  given  o'er  ?   . 

Mac.  By  Crish  la,  tish  ill  done ;  the  work  ish 
give  over,  the  trumpet  sound  the  retreat.  By  my 
hand,  I  swear,  and  by  my  father's  soul,  the  work 
ish  ill  done ;  it  ish  give  over :  I  would  have  blow 
ed  up  the  town,  so  Crish  save  me,  la,  in  an  hour. 
0,  tish  ill  done,  tish  ill  done ;  by  my  hand,  tish 
ill  done  I 


ACT   III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE   III. 


Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  I  peseech  you  now, 
wi'l  you  voutsafe  me,  look  you,  a  few  disputations 
with  you,  as  partly  touching  or  concerning  the 
disciplines  of  the  war,  the  Roman  wars,  in  the 
way  of  argument,  look  you,  and  friendly  com- 
munication ;  partly,  to  satisfy  my  opinion,  and 
partly,  for  the  satisfaction,  look  you,  of  my  mind, 
as  touching  the  direction  of  the  military  discipline ; 
that  is  the  point. 

Jamy.  It  sail  be  very  gud,  gud  feith,  gud  cap- 
tains bath :  and  I  sail  quit  you  with  gud  leve,  as 
I  may  pick  occasion ;  that  sail  I,  marry. 

Mac.  It  is  no  time  to  discourse,  so  Crish  save 
me,  the  day  is  hot,  and  the  weather,  and  the  wars, 
and  the  king,  and  the  dukes ;  it  is  no  time  to 
discourse.  The  town  is  beseeched,  and  the  trum- 
pet calls  us  to  the  breach ;  and  we  talk,  and,  by 
Crish,  do  nothing;  't  is  shame  for  us  all :  so  God 
sa'  me,  't  is  shame  to  stand  still ;  it  is  shame,  by 
ray  hand :  and  there  is  throats  to  be  cut,  and 
works  to  be  done  ;  and  there  ish  nothing  done,  so 
Crish  sa'  me,  la. 

Jam-g.  By  the  mess,  ere  theise  eyes  of  mine 
take  themselves  to  slumber,  aile  do  gude  service, 
or  aile  ligge  i'  the  grund  for  it ;  ay,  or  go  to 
death  ;  and  aile  pay  it  as  valorously  as  I  may, 
that  sal  I  Rurely  do,  that  is  the  breff  and  the  long: 
Mary,  I  wad  full  fain  heard  some  question  'tween 
you  'tway. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  I  think,  look  you, 
under  your  correction,  there  is  not  many  of  your 
nation 

Mac.  Of  my  nation  ?  What  ish  my  nation  ? 
What  ish  my  nation?  Who  talks  of  my  nation 
ish  a  villain,  and  a  bastard,  and  a  knave,  and  a 
rascal. 

Flu.  Look  you,  if  you  take  the  matter  other- 
wise than  is  meant,  captain  Macmorris,  perad- 
venture,  I  shall  think  you  do  not  use  me  with 
that  affability  as  in  discretion  you  ought  to  use 
me,  look  you ;  being  as  goot  a  man  as  yourself, 
both  in  the  disciplines  of  wars,  and  in  the  deriva- 
tion of  my  birth,  and  in  other  particularities. 

Mac.  I  do  not  know  you  so  good  a  man  as  my- 
self: so  Crish  save  me,  I  will  cut  off  your  head. 

Oow.  Gentlemen  both,  you  will  mistake  each 
other. 

Jamy.  Au  !  that 's  a  foul  fault. 

[A  Parley  sounded. 

Oow.  The  town  sounds  a  parley. 

Flu.  Captain  Macmorris,  when  there  is  more 
be*ter  opportunity  to  be  required,  look  you,  I  will 

105 


be  so  bold  as  to  tell  you,  I  know  the  disciplines  of 
war ;  and  there  is  an  end.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  The  same.     Before  the  Gates  of 
Harfleur. 

The  Governor  and  some  Citizens  on  the  Walls; 
the  English  Forces  below.  Enter  King  Hknrt, 
and  his  Train. 

K.  Hen.  How  yet  resolves  the  governor  of  the 

town  ? 
This  is  the  latest  parle  we  will  admit : 
Therefore,  to  our  best  mercy  give  yourselves  ; 
Or,  like  to  men  proud  of  destruction. 
Defy  us  to  our  worst :  for,  as  I  am  a  soldier, 
(A  name,  that,  in  my  thoughts,  becomes  me  best,) 
If  I  begin  the  battery  once  again, 
I  will  not  leave  the  half-achieved  Harfleur. 
Till  in  her  ashes  she  lie  buried. 
The  gates  of  mercy  shall  be  all  shut  up ; 
And  the  flesh'd  soldier — rough  and  nard  of  heart — 
In  liberty  of  bloody  hand,  shall  range 
With  conscience  wide  as  hell ;   mowing  like  grass 
Your  fresh-fair  virgins,  and  your  flowering  infants 
What  is  it  then  to  me,  if  impious  war, — 
Array'd  in  flames,  like  to  the  prince  of  fiends,— 
Do,  with  his  smirch'd  complexion,  all  fell  feats 
Enlink'd  to  waste  and  desolation  ? 
What  is  't  to  me,  when  you  yourselves  are  cause 
If  your  pure  maidens  fall  into  the  hand 
Of  hot  and  forcing  violation  ? 
What  rein  can  hold  licentious  wickedness. 
When  down  the  hill  he  holds  his  fierce  career  ? 
We  may  as  bootless  spend  our  vain  command 
Upon  the  enraged  soldiers  in  their  spoil, 
As  send  precepts  to  the  Leviathan 
To  come  ashore.   Therefore,  you  men  of  Harfleur, 
Take  pity  of  your  town,  and  of  your  people. 
Whiles  yet  my  soldiers  are  in  my  command  ; 
Whiles  yet  the  cool  and  temperate  wind  of  grace 
O'erblows  the  filthy  and  contagious  clouds 
Of  deadly  murder,  spoil,  and  villany. 
If  not,  why,  in  a  moment,  look  to  see 
The  Wind  and  bloody  soldier  with  foul  hand 
Defile  the  locks  of  your  shrill-shrieking  daughters  ; 
Your  fathers  taken  by  the  silver  beards. 
And   their  most  reverend  heads  dash'd  to  the 

walls ; 
Your  naked  infants  spitted  upon  pikes  ; 
Whiles  the  mad  mothers  with  their  howls  confus'd 
Do  break  the  clouds,  as  did  the  wives  of  Jewry 
At  Herod's  bloody-hunting  slaughtermen. 

888 


\ 


AOT   III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE  rv-v. 


What  say  you  ?  will  you  yield,  and  this  avoid  ? 
Or,  guilty  in  defence,  be  thus  destroy'd  ? 

Gov.  Our  expectation  hath  this  day  an  end  : 
The  Dauphin,  whom  of  succour  we  entreated. 
Returns  us — that  his  powers  are  not  yet  ready 
To  raise  so  great  a  siege.     Therefore,  dread  king, 
We  yield  our  town,  and  lives,  to  thy  soft  mercy  : 
Enter  our  gates  ;  dispose  of  us,  and  ours  ; 
For  we  no  longer  are  defensible. 

K.  Hen.  Open  your  gates. — Come,  uncle  Exeter, 
Go  you  and  enter  Harfleur ;  there  remain, 
And  fortify  it  strongly  'gainst  the  French  : 
Use  mercy  to  them  all.     For  us,  dear  uncle, — 
The  winter  coming  on,  and  sickness  growing 
Upon  our  soldiers, — we  '11  retire  to  Calais. 
To-night  in  Harfleur  will  we  be  your  guest ; 
To-morrow  for  the  march  are  we  addrest. 

\Flourish.     The  King,  c&c,  enter  the  Town. 

SCENE  IV. — Rouen.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Katharine  and  Alice. 

Kath.  Alice,  tu  as  este  en  Angleterre,  et  tu 
paries  Men  le  language. 

Alice.  En  peu,  madame. 

Kath.  Je  te  prie,  m'enseigneuz ;  il  faut  que 
fapprenne  a  parler.  Comment  appellez  vous  la 
main,  en  Anglois  ? 

Alice.  La  main  ?  elle  est  appellee,  de  hand. 

Kath.  De  hand.     Et  les  doigts  ? 

Alice.  Les  doigts  ?  may  foy,je  ouhlie  les  doigts; 
mais  je  me  souviendray.  Les  doigts  ?  je  pense, 
quHls  sont  appelle  de  fingres ;  ouy,  de  fingres. 

Kath.  La  main,  de  hand  ;  les  doigts,  de  fingres. 
Je  pense,  que  je  suis  le  hon  escolier.  J^ay  gagne 
deux  mots  d' Anglois  vistement.  Comment  appellez 
vous  les  angles  ? 

Alice.  Les  cnigles  ?  les  appellons,  de  nails. 

Kath.  De  nails.  Escoutez  ;  dites  moy,  si  je 
varle  hien  :  de  hand,  de  fingres,  de  nails. 

Alice.  Cest  hien  dit,  madame  ;  il  est  fort  hon 
Anglois. 

Kath.  Dites  moy  en  Anglois  le  bras. 

Alice.  De  arm,  madame. 

Kath.  Et  le  coude. 

Alice.  De  elbow. 

Kath.  De  elbow.  Je  m'enfaitz  la  repetition  de 
lous  les  mots,  que  vous  m'avez  appris  des  a  present. 

Alice.  II  est  trop  difficile,  madame,  comme  je 
pense. 

Kath.  Excusez  moy,  Alice  ;  escoutez :  De  hand, 
de  fingre,  de  nails,  de  arm,  de  bilbo w. 
884 


Alice.  De  elbow,  madame. 

Kath.  0  Seigneur  Dieuf  je  m^en  ouhlie  :  l>e 
elbow.     Comment  appellez  vous  le  col  ? 

Alice.  De  neck,  madame. 

Kath.  De  neck  :  Et  le  mcnton  ? 

Alice.  De  chin. 

Kath.  De  sin.  Le  col,  de  neck :  le  menton,  de  sin. 

Alice.  Ouy.  Sauf  vostre  honneur  ;  en  verite, 
vous  prononces  les  mots  aussi  droict  que  les  nati/s 
dAngleterre. 

Kath.  Je  ne  doute  point  d^apprendre  par  la 
grace  de  Lieu  ;  et  en  peu  de  temps. 

Alice.  N''avez  vous  pas  dcja  ouhlie  ce  que  J9 
vous  ay  enseign^e  ? 

Kath.  JVon,  je  reciteray  a  vous  promptemerK. 
De  hand,  de  fingre,  de  mails, — 

Alice.  De  nails,  madame. 

Kath.  De  nails,  de  arme,  de  ilbow. 

Alice.  Souf  vostre  honneur,  de  elbow. 

Kath.  Ainsi  dis  je ;  de  elbow,  de  neck,  et  de 
sin  :   Comment  appellez  vous  le  pieds  et  la  robe  ? 

Alice.  De  foot,  madame  ;  et  de  con. 

Kath.  De  foot,  et  de  con  ?  0  Seigneur  Lieu/ 
ces  sont  mots  de  son  mauvais,  corruptible,  grosse,  et 
impudique,  et  nonpour  les  dames  d' honneur  d''user : 
Je  ne  voudrois  prononcer  ces  mots  devant  les  Sei- 
gneurs de  France,  pour  tout  le  monde.  II  faut  de 
foot,  et  de  con,  neant-moins.  Je  reciterai  une 
autrefois  ma  le^on  ensemble :  De  hand,  de  fingre, 
de  nails,  de  arm,  de  elbow,  de  neck,  de  sin,  de  foot, 
de  con. 

Alice.  Excellent,  madame/ 

Kath.  Cest  assez  pour  une  fois  ;  allons  nous  a 
disner.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — The  Same.     Another  Boom  in  the 
same. 

Enter  the  French  King,  the  Dauphin,  Duke  of 
Bourbon,  the  Constable  of  France,  and 
Others. 

Fr.  King.  'T  is  certain,  he  hath  pass'd  the  rivei 
Somme. 

Con.  And  if  he  be  not  fought  withal,  my  lord, 
Let  us  not  live  in  France ;  let  us  quit  all. 
And  give  our  vineyards  to  a  barbarous  people. 

Dau.     0  Lieu   vivant/    shall    a   few   spr.'.ya 
of  us, — 
The  emptying  of  our  fathers'  luxury, 
Our  scions,  put  in  wild  and  savage  stock. 
Spirt  up  so  suddenly  into  the  clouds 
And  overlook  their  grafters  ? 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE  n. 


Bour.  Normans,  but  bastard  Normans,  Norman 
bastards ! 
Mort  de  ma  vie  /  if  they  march  along 
Unfought  withal,  but  I  will  sell  my  dukedom, 
To  buy  a  slobbery  and  a  dirty  farm 
In  that  nook-shotten  isle  of  Albion.^" 

Co7i.  Dieu  de  hattailes  !  where  have  they  this 
mettle  ? 
Is  not  their  climate  foggy,  raw,  and  dull  ? 
On  whom,  as  in  despite,  the  sun  looks  pale,        • 
Killing  their  fruit  with  frowns  ?    Can  sodden  water, 
A  drench  for  sur-rein'd  jades,  their  barley  broth, 
Decoct  their  cold  blood  to  such  valiant  heat  ? 
And  shall  our  quick  blood,  spirited  with  wine, 
Seem  frosty  ?     O,  for  honour  of  our  land, 
Let  us  not  hang  like  roping  icicles 
Upon  our  houses'  thatch,  whiles  a  more  frosty 

people 
Sweat  drops  of  gallant  youth  in  our  rich  fields; 
Poor — we  may  call  them,  in  their  native  lords. 

Dau.  By  faith  and  honour, 
Our  madams  mock  at  us ;  and  plainly  say. 
Our  mettle  is  bred  out;  and  they  will  give 
Their  bodies  to  the  lust  of  English  youth, 
To  new-store  France  with  bastard  warriors. 

Bour.   They  bid  us — to  the  English  dancing- 
schools. 
And  teach  lavoltas  high,  and  swift  corantos ; 
Saying,  our  grace  is  only  in  our  heels. 
And  that  we  are  most  lofty  runaways. 

Fr.  King.  Where  is  Montjoy,  the  herald  ?  speed 
him  hence ; 
Let  him  greet  England  with  our  sharp  defiance. — 
Up,  princes ;  and,  with  spirit  of  honour  edg'd, 
More  sharper  than  your  swords,  hie  to  the  field : 
Charles  De-la-bret,  high  constable  of  France  ; 
You  dukes  of  Orleans,  Bourbon,  and  of  Berry, 
Alencon,  Brabant,  Bar,  and  Burgundy ; 
Jaqiies  Chatillion,  Rambures,  Vauderaont, 
Beaumont,  Grandpre,  Roussi,  and  Fauconberg, 
Foix,  Lestrale,  Bouciqualt,  and  Charolois ; 
High   dukes,   great  princes,    barons,  lords,   and 

knights, 
For  your  great  seats,  now  quit  you  of  great  shames. 
Bar  Harry  England,  that  sweeps  through  our  land 
With  pennons  painted  in  the  blood  of  Harfleur : 
Rush  on  his  host,  as  doth  the  melted  snow 
Upon  the  valleys ;  whose  low  vassal  seat 
The  Alps  loth  spit  and  void  his  rheum  upon  : 
Go  down  upon  him, — you  have  power  enough, — 
And  in  a  captive  chariot,  into  RoUen 
Bring  him  our  prisoner. 


Con.  This  becomes  the  great. 

Sorry  am  I,  his  numbers  are  so  few. 
His  soldiers  sick,  and  famish'd  in  their  march ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  when  he  shall  see  our  army, 
He  11  drop  his  heart  into  the  sink  of  fear, 
And   .or  achievement,  offer  us  his  ransom. 

Fr.  King.  Therefore,  lord  constable,  haste  od 
Montjoy ; 
And  let  him  say  to  England,  that  we  send 

To  know  what  willing  ransom  he  will  give. 

Prince  Dauphin,  you  shall  stay  with  us  in  Rovien. 

Dau.  Not  so,  I  do  beseech  your  majesty. 

Fr.  King,    Be   patient,  for  you   shall   remain 
with  us. — 
Now,  forth,  lord  constable,  and  princes  all ; 
And  quickly  bring  us  word  of  England's  fall, 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  YI.— The  English  Camp  in  Picardy. 
Enter  Gower  and  Fluellen. 

Oow.  How  now,  captain  Fluellen  ?  come  you 
from  the  bridge  ? 

Flu.  I  assure  you,  there  is  very  excellent  ser- 
vice committed  at  the  pridge. 

Gow.  Is  the  duke  of  Exeter  safe  ? 

Flu.  The  duke  of  Exeter  is  as  magnanimous  as 
Agamemnon ;  and  a  man  that  I  love  and  honour 
with  my  soul,  and  my  heart,  and  my  duty,  and  my 
life,  and  my  livings,  and  my  uttermost  powers  :  he 
is  not,  (God  be  praised,  and  plessed !)  any  hurt  in 
the  'orld ;  but  keeps  the  pridge  most  valiantly,^' 
with  excellent  discipline.  There  is  an  ensign  there 
at  the  pridge, — I  think,  in  my  very  conscience,  he 
is  as  valiant  as  Mark  Antony  ;  and  he  is  a  man 
of  no  estimation  in  the  'orld  :  but  I  did  see  him 
do  gallant  service. 

Gow.  What  do  you  call  him  ? 

Flu.  He  is  called — ancient  Pistol. 

Gow.  I  know  him  not. 

Enter  Pistol. 

Flu.  Do  you  not  know  him  ?  Here  comes  the 
man. 

Pist.  Captain,  I  thee  beseech  to  do  me  favours : 
The  duke  of  Exeter  doth  love  thee  well. 

Flu.  Kj,  I  praise  Got;  and  I  have  merited 
some  love  at  his  hands. 

Pist.    Bardolph,  a  soldier,  firm  and  round  of 
heart, 
Of  buxom  valour,  hath, — by  cruel  fate, 
And  giddy  fortune's  furious  fickle  wheel, 

836 


ACT   UI. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCKXB    VI. 


That  goddess  blind, 

That  stands  upon  the  rolling  restless  stone, — 

Flu.  By  your  patience,  ancient  Pistol.  Fortune 
is  painted  plind,  with  a  muffler  before  her  eyes, 
to  signify  to  you,  that  fortune  is  plind :  An(f  she 
is  painted  also  with  a  wheel ;  to  signify  w  vou, 
which  is  the  moral  of  it,  that  she  is  turning,  and 
inconstant,  and  variations,  and  mutabilities :  and 
her  foot,  look  you,  is  fixed  upon  a  spherical  stone, 
which  rolls,  and  rolls,  and  rolls : — In  good  truth, 
the  poet  is  make  a  most  excellent  description  of 
fortune  :  fortune,  look  you,  is  an  excellent  moral. 

Pist.  Fortune  is  Bardolph's  foe,  and  frowns  on 
him ; 
For  he  has  stol'n  a  pix,  and  hanged  must  'a  be.^^ 
A  damned  death  ! 

Let  gallows  gape  for  dog,  let  man  go  free. 
And  let  not  hemp  his  wind-pipe  suffocate : 
But  Exeter  hath  given  the  doom  of  death, 
For  pix  of  little  price. 

Therefore,  go  speak,  the  duke  will  hear  thy  voice ; 
And  let  not  Bardolph's  vital  thread  be  cut 
With  edge  of  penny  cord,  and  vile  reproach  : 
Speak,  captain,  for  his  life,  and  I  will  thee  requite. 

Flu.  Ancient  Pistol,  I  do  partly  understand 
your  meaning. 

Pist.  Why  then  rejoice  therefore. 

Flu.  Certainly,  ancient,  it  is  not  a  thing  to  re- 
joice at :  for  if,  look  you,  he  were  my  brother,  I 
would  desire  the  duke  to  use  his  goot  pleasure, 
and  put  him  to  executions  ;  for  disciplines  ought 
to  be  used. 

Pist.  Die  and   be  damn'd ;  and  figo  for   thy 
friendship  ! 

Flu.  It  is  well. 

Pist.  The  fig  of  Spain  !  [Exit  Pist. 

Flu.  Very  good. 

Gow.  Why,  this  is  an  arrant  counterfeit  rascal ; 
I  remember  him  now;  a  bawd  ;  a  cutpurse. 

Flu.  I  '11  assure  you,  'a  utter'd  as  prave  'ords 
at  the  pridge,  as  you  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day  : 
But  it  is  very  well ;  what  he  has  spoke  to  me,  that 
is  well,  I  warrant  you,  when  time  is  serve. 

Oow.  Why,  't  is  a  gull,  a  fool,  a  rogue ;  that 
now  and  then  goes  to  the  wars,  to  grace  himself, 
at  his  return  into  London,  under  the  form  of  a 
soldier.  And  such  fellows  are  perfect  in  great 
commanders'  names :  and  they  will  learn  you  by 
rote,  where  services  were  done ; — at  such  and  such 
a  sconce,  at  such  a  breach,  at  such  a  convoy  ;  who 
came  off  bravely,  who  was  shot,  who  disgraced, 
what  terms  tlie  enemy  stood  on  ;  and  this  they 

886 


con  perfectly  in  the  phrase  of  war,  which  they 
trick  up  with  new-coined  oaths;  And  what  a 
beard  of  the  general's  cut,^  and  a  horrid  suit  of 
the  camp,  will  do  among  foaming  bottles,  and  ale- 
washed  wits,  is  wonderful  to  be  thought  on !  but 
you  must  learn  to  know  such  slanders  of  the  age, 
or  else  you  may  be  marvellous  mistook. 

Flu.  I  tell  you  what,  captain  Gower ; — I  dd 
perceive,  he  is  not  the  man  that  he  would  gladly 
.make  show  to  the  'orld  he  is ;  if  I  find  a  hole  in 
his  coat,  I  will  tell  him  my  mind.  [Drum  heard.'] 
Hark  you,  the  king  is  coming;  and  I  must  speak 
with  him  from  the  pridge. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  and  Soldiers. 

Flu.  Got  pless  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  Fluellen  ?  camest  thou  front, 
the  bridge  ? 

Flu.  Ay,  so  please  your  majesty.  The  duke  oi 
Exeter  has  very  gallantly  maintained  the  pridge  : 
the  French  is  gone  off,  look  you ;  and  there  is 
gallant  and  most  prave  passages  :  Marry,  th'  ath- 
versary  was  have  possession  of  the  pridge ;  but 
he  is  enforced  to  retire,  and  the  duke  of  Exeter  is 
master  of  the  pridge :  I  can  tell  your  majesty,  the 
duke  is  a  prave  man. 

K.  Hen.  What  men  have  you  lost,  Fluellen  ? 

Flu.  The  perdition  of  th"  athversary  hath  been 
very  great,  very  reasonable  great :  marry,  for  my 
part,  I  think  the  duke  hath  lost  never  a  man,  but 
one  that  is  like  to  be  executed  for  robbing  a 
church,  one  Bardolph,  if  your  majesty  know  the 
man  :  his  face  is  all  bubukles,  and  whelks,  and 
knobs,  and  flames  of  fire ;  and  his  lips  plows  at 
his  nose,  and  it  is  like  a  coal  of  fire,  sometimes 
plue,  and  sometimes  red  ;  but  his  nose  is  executed, 
and  his  fire  's  out. 

K.  Hen.  We  would  have  all  such  offenders  so 
cut  off: — and  we  give  express  charge,  that,  in  our 
marches  through  the  country,  there  be  nothing 
compelled  from  the  villages,  nothing  taken  but 
paid  for  ;  none  of  the  French  upbraided,  or  abused 
in  disdainful  language  :  For  vi'hen  lenity  and  cruel- 
ty play  for  a  kingdom,  the  gentler  gamester  is  the 
soonest  winner. 

Tucket  sounds.     Enter  Montjoy. 

Mont.  You  know  me  by  my  habit. 

K.  Hen.  Well  then,  I  know  thee :  What  shal] 

I  know  of  thee  1 
Mont.  My  master's  mind. 
K.Hen.  Unfold  it 


Acr  in. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    VII. 


Mont.  Thus  says  my  king : — Say  thou  to  Harry 
of  England,  Though  we  seemed  dead,  we  did  but 
sleep:  Advantage  is  a  better  soldier,  than  rash- 
ness. Tell  him,  we  could  have  rebuked  him  at 
Harfleur  ;  but  that  we  thought  not  good  to  bruise 
an  injury,  till  it  were  full  ripe : — now  we  speak 
upon  our  cue,  and  our  voice  is  imperial :  England 
shall  repent  his  folly,  see  his  weakness,  and  ad- 
mire our  sufferance.  Bid  him,  therefore,  consider 
of  his  ransom  ;  which  must  proportion  the  losses 
we  have  borne,  the  subjects  we  have  lost,  the  dis- 
grace we  have  digested ;  which,  in  weight  to  re- 
answer,  his  pettiness  would  bow  under.  For  our 
losses,  his  exchequer  is  too  poor ;  for  the  effusion 
of  our  blood,  the  muster  of  his  kingdom  too  faint 
a  number ;  and  for  our  disgrace,  his  own  person, 
kneeling  at  our  feet,  but  a  weak  and  worthless 
satisfaction.  To  this  add — defiance  :  and  tell  him, 
for  conclusion,  he  hath  betrayed  his  followers, 
whose  condemnation  is  pronounced.  So  far  my 
king  and  master  ;  so  much  my  oflSce. 

K.  Hen.  What  is  thy  name  ?  I  know  thy 
quality. 

Mont.  Montjoy. 

K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  thy  office  fairly.    Turn  thee 
back, 
And  tell  thy  king, — I  do  not  seek  him  now : 
But  could  be  willing  to  march  on  to  Calais 
Without  impeachment :  for,  to  say  the  sooth, 
(Though  't  is  no  wisdom  to  confess  so  much 
Unto  an  enemy  of  craft  and  vantage,) 
My  people  are  with  sickness  much  enfeebled ; 
My  numbers  lessen'd ;  and  those  few  I  have, 
Almost  no  better  than  so  many  French ; 
Who  when  they  were  in  health,  I  tell  thee,  herald, 
I  thought,  upon  one  pair  of  English  legs 
Did  march  three  Frenchmen. — Yet,  forgive  me, 

God, 
That  I  do  brag  thus  !  this  your  air  of  France 
Hath  blown  that  vice  in  me  ;  I  must  repent. 
Go,  therefore,  tell  thy  master,  here  I  am ; 
My  ransom,  is  this  frail  and  worthless  trunk; 
My  army,  but  a  weak  and  sickly  guard  ; 
Yet,  God  before,  tell  him  we  will  come  on. 
Though  France  himself,  and  such  another  neigh- 
bour, 
Stand  in  our  way.  There  's  for  thy  labour,  Montjoy. 
Go,  bid  thy  master  well  advise  himself: 
If  we  may  pass,  we  will ;  if  we  be  hinder'd, 
We  shall  your  tawny  ground  with  your  red  blood 
Discolour :  and  so,  Montjoy,  fare  you  well. 
The  sum  of  all  our  answer  is  but  this : 


We  would  not  seek  a  battle,  as  we  are ; 
Nor,  as  we  are,  we  say,  we  will  nof  shun  it ; 
So  tell  your  master. 

Mont.  I  shall  deliver  so.    Thanks  to  your  high 
ness.  [Exit  Mont 

Glo.  I  hope,  they  will  not  come  upon  us  now. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  in  God's  hand,  brother,  nof 
in  theirs. 
March  to  the  bridge ;  it  now  draws  toward  night : — 
Beyond  the  river  we  '11  encamp  ourselves ; 
And  on  to-morrow  bid  them  march  away.  \Exeunt, 

SCENE  VII. — TAe  French  Cam;p,  n^ar  Agincourt. 

Enter  the  Constable  of  France,  the  Lord  Ram- 
BURES,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  Dauphin,  and 
Others. 

Con.  Tut !  I  have  the  best  armour  of  the  world 
— 'Would,  it  were  day  ! 

Orl.  You  have  an  excellent  armour;  but  lei 
my  horse  have  his  due. 

Con.  It  is  the  best  horse  of  Europe. 

Orl.  Will  it  never  be  morning  ? 

Bau.  My  lord  of  Orleans,  and  my  lord  high 
Constable,  you  talk  of  horse  and  armour, — 

Orl.  You  are  as  well  provided  of  both,  as  any 
prince  in  the  world. 

Dau.  What  a  long  night  is  this ! 1  will  not 

change  my  horse  with  any  that  treads  but  on  four 
pasterns.  Ca,  ha  !  He  bounds  from  the  earth,  as 
if  his  entrails  were  hairs ;  le  cheval  volant,  the 
Pegasus,  que  a  les  narines  de  feu  !  When  I  be- 
stride him,  I  soar,  I  am  a  hawk  :  he  trots  the  air ; 
the  earth  sings  when  he  touches  it;  the  basest 
horn  of  his  hoof  is  more  musical  than  the  pipe  of 
Hermes. 

Orl.  He  's  of  the  colour  of  the  nutmeg. 

Dau.  And  of  the  heat  of  the  ginger.  It  is  a 
beast  for  Perseus  :  he  is  pure  air  and  fire ;  and 
the  dull  elements  of  earth  and  water  never  appeal 
in  him,  but  only  in  patient  stillness,  while  his 
rider  mounts  him  :  he  is,  indeed,  a  horse ;  and  all 
other  jades  you  may  call — beasts. 

Con.  Indeed,  ray  lord,  it  is  a  most  absolute  and 
excellent  horse. 

Dau.  It  is  the  prince  of  palfreys  :  his  neigh  is 
like  the  bidding  of  a  monarch,  and  his  countenance 
enforces  homage. 

Orl.  No  more,  cousin. 

Dau.  Nay,  the  man  hafh  no  wit,  that  cannot, 
from  the  rising  of  the  lark  to  the  lodging  of  the 
lamb,  vary  deserved  praise  on  my  palfrey :  it  is  a 

887 


ACT    HI. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    VH. 


theme  as  fluent  as  the  sea ;  turn  the  sands  into 
eloquent  tongues,  and  ray  horse  is  argument  for 
them  all :  't  is  a  subject  for  a  sovereign  to  reason 
on,  and  for  a  sovereign's  sovereign  to  ride  on ; 
and  for  the  world  (familiar  to  us,  and  unknown,) 
to  lay  apart  their  particular  functions,  and  wonder 
at  him.  I  once  writ  a  sonnet  in  his  praise,  and 
began  thus :  "  Wonder  of  nature," — 

Orl.  I  have  heard  a  sonnet  begin  so  to  one's 
mistress. 

Dau.  Then  did  they  imitate  that  which  I  com- 
posed to  my  courser ;  for  my  horse  is  my  mistress. 

Orl.  Your  mistress  bears  well. 

Dau.  Me  well ;  which  is  the  prescript  praise  and 
perfection  of  a  good  and  particular  mistress. 

Con.  Mafoy  !  the  other  day,  methought,  your 
mistress  shrewdly  shook  your  back. 

Dau.  So,  perhaps,  did  yours. 

Con.  Mine  was  not  bridled. 

Dau.  O !  then,  belike,  she  was  old  and  gentle ; 
and  you  rode,  like  a  Kerne  of  Ireland,  your  French 
hose  off,  and  in  your  straight  trossers.'" 

Con.  You  have  good  judgment  in  horsemanship. 

Dau.  Be  warned  by  me  then :  they  that  ride 
so,  and  ride  not  warily,  fall  into  foul  bogs;  I  had 
rather  have  my  horse  to  my  mistress. 

Con.  I  had  as  lief  have  my  mistress  a  jade. 

Dnu.  I  tell  thee,  constable,  my  mistress  wears 
her  own  hair. 

Con.  I  could  make  as  true  a  boast  as  that,  if  I 
had  a  sow  to  my  mistress. 

Dau.  Le  chein  est  retourni  a  son  propre  vomisse- 
7nent,  et  la  truie  lavee  au  bourbier :  thou  makest 
use  of  any  thing. 

Con.  Yet  do  I  not  use  my  horse  for  my  mistress ; 
or  any  such  proverb,  so  little  kin  to  the  purpose. 

Ham.  My  lord  constable,  the  armour  that  I  saw 
in  your  tent  to-night,  are  those  stars,  or  suns, 
upon  it? 

Con.  Stars,  my  lord. 

Dau.  Some  of  them  will  fall  to-morrow,  I  hope. 

Con.  And  yet  my  sky  shall  not  want. 

Dau.  That  may  be,  for  you  bear  a  many  super- 
fluously ;  and  't  were  more  honour,  some  were 
away. 

Con.  Even  as  your  horse  bears  your  praises ; 
wlio  would  trot  as  well,  were  some  of  your  brags 
dismounted. 

Dau.  'Would,  I  were  able  to  load  him  with  his 
desert !  Will  it  never  be  day  ?  I  will  trot  to-raor- 
low  a  mile,  and  my  way  shall  be  paved  with 
English  faces. 

8S8 


Con.  I  will  not  say  so,  for  fear  I  shoald  be 
faced  out  of  my  way :  But  I  would  it  were  morn- 
ing, for  I  would  fain  be  about  the  ears  of  the 
English. 

Ham.  Who  will  go  to  hazard  with  me  for  twenty 
English  prisoners  ? 

Con.  You  must  first  go  yourself  to  hazard,  ere 
you  have  them. 

Dau.  'T  is  midnight,  I  '11  go  arm  myself.    [Uxit 

Orl.  The  Dauphin  longs  for  morning. 

Ham.  He  longs  to  eat  the  English. 

Con.  I  think,  he  will  eat  all  he  kills. 

Orl.  By  the  white  hand  of  my  lady,  he  's  a 
gallant  prince. 

Con.  Swear  by  her  foot,  that  she  may  tread  out 
the  oath. 

Orl.  He  is,  simply,  the  most  active  gentleman 
of  France. 

Con.  Doing  is  activity :  and  he  will  still  be  doing. 

Oi'l.  He  never  did  harm,  that  I  heard  of. 

Con.  Nor  will  do  none  to-morrow;  he  will 
keep  that  good  name  still. 

Orl.  I  know  him  to  be  valiant. 

Con.  I  was  told  that,  by  one  that  knows  him 
better  than  you. 

Orl.  What 's  he  ? 

Con.  Marry,  he  told  me  so  himself;  and  he 
said,  he  cared  not  who  knew  it. 

Orl.  He  needs  not,  it  is  no  hidden  virtue  in  him. 

Con.  By  my  faith,  sir,  but  it  is ;  never  any  body 
saw  it,  but  his  lackey  :  't  is  a  hooded  valour ;  and, 
when  it  appears,  it  will  bate. 

Orl.  Ill  will  never  said  well. 

Con.  I  will  cap  that  proverb  with — There  is 
flattery  in  fiiendship. 

Orl.  And  I  will  take  up  that  with — Give  the 
devil  his  due. 

Con.  Well  placed  ;  there  stands  your  friend  for 
the  devil :  have  at  the  very  eye  of  that  proverb, 
with — A  pox  of  the  devil. 

Orl.  You  are  the  better  at  proverbs,  bv  how 
much — A  fool's  bolt  is  soon  shot. 

Con.  You  have  shot  over. 

Orl.  'T  is  not  the  first  time  you  were  ovei- 
shot. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord  high  Constable,  the  English  lie 
within  fifteen  hundred  paces  of  your  tent. 
Con.  Who  hath  measured  the  ground  ? 
Mess.  The  lord  Grand  pre. 
Con.  A  valiant  and  most  expert  gentleman.— 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


CHORUS. 


Would  it  were  day ! — Alas,  poor  Harry  of  Eng- 
land !  he  longs  not  for  the  dawning,  as  we  do. 

Orl.  What  a  wretched  and  peevish  fellow  is 
this  king  of  England,  to  mope  with  his  fat-brained 
followers  so  far  out  of  his  knowledge  ! 

Con.  If  the  English  had  any  apprehension,  they 
would  run  away. 

Orl.  That  they  lack;  for  if  their  heads  had 
any  intellectual  armour,  they  could  never  wear 
such  heavy  head-pieces. 

Ram.  That  island  of  England  breeds  very  val- 
iant creatures  :  their  mastiffs  are  of  unmatchable 
courage. 

Orl.  Foolish  curs  !  that  run  winking  into  the 
mouth  of  a  Russian  bear,  and  have  their  heads 
crushed  like  rotten  apples :  You  may  as  well  say, 


— that 's  a  valiant  flea,  that  dare  eat  his  breakfast 
on  the  lip  of  a  lion. 

Con.  Just,  just ;  and  the  men  do  sympathise 
with  the  mastiffs,  in  robustious  and  rough  coming 
on,  leaving  their  wits  with  their  wives :  and  then 
give  them  great  meals  of  beef,  and  iron  and 
steel,  they  will  eat  like  wolves,  and  fight  like 
devils. 

Orl.  Ay,  but  these  English  are  shrewdly  out 
of  beef. 

Con.  Then  we  shall  find  to-morrow — they  have 
only  stomachs  to  eat,  and  none  to  fight.  Now  ia 
it  time  to  arm  :  Come,  shall  we  about  it? 

Orl.  It  is  now  two  o'clock :  but,  let  me  see, — 
by  ten. 
We  shall  have  each  a  hundred  Englishmen. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  lY. 


Enter  Chorus. 

Char.  Now  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time. 
When  creeping  murmur,  and  the  poring  dark. 
Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 
From  camp  to  camp,  through  the  foul  womb  of 

night. 
The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds, 
That  the  fix'd  sentinels  almost  receive 
The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's  watch : 
Fire  answers  fire ;  and  through  their  paly  flames 
Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umber'd  face : 
Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boastful  neighs, 
Piercing  the  night's  dull  ear ;  and  from  the  tents. 
The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights, 
With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up, 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation. 
The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll. 
And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning  name. 
Proud  of  their  numbers,  and  secure  in  soul, 
The  confident  and  over-lusty  French 
Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice ;'' 
And  chide  the  cripple  tardy-gaited  night, 
Who,  like  a  foul  and  ugly  witch,  doth  limp 
So  tediously  away.    The  poor  condemned  English, 
Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 
Sit  patiently,  and  inly  ruminate 


The  morning's  danger  ;  and  their  gesture  sad, 
Investing  lank-lean  cheeks,  and  war-worn  coats, 
Presenteth  them  unto  the  gazing  moon 
So  many  horrid  ghosts.    O,  now,  who  will  behold 
The  royal  captain  of  this  ruin'd  band, 
Walking  from  watch  to  watch,  from  tent  to  tent. 
Let  hinl  cry — Praise  and  glory  on  his  head ! 
For  forth  he  goes,  and  visits  all  his  host; 
Bids  them  good-morrow,  with  a  modest  smile ; 
And  calls  them — brothers,  friends,  and  country- 
men. 
Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note, 
How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him  ; 
Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  colour 
Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night : 
But  freshly  looks,  and  over-bears  attaint, 
With  cheerful  semblance,  and  sweet  majesty ; 
That  every  wretch,  pining  and  pale  before. 
Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his  looks : 
A  largess  universal,  like  the  sun. 
His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one. 
Thawing  cold  fear.     Then,  mean  and  gentle  all, 
Behold,  as  may  unworthiness  define, 
A  little  touch  of  Harry  in  the  night : 
And  so  our  scene  must  to  the  battle  flv  : 
Where  (0  for  pity !)  we  shall  much  disgrace — • 
With  four  or  five  most  vile  and  ragged  foils, 

889 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    1. 


Kiglit  ill-disposed,  in  brawl  ridiculous, — 
The  name  of  Agincourt :  Yet,  sit  and  see  ; 
Minding  true  things,  by  what  their  mockeries  be. 

[IJxiL 

SCENE  I. —  The  English  Cam2)  at  Agincourt. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Bedford,  and  Gloster. 

K.  Hen.  Gloster,  't  is  true,  that  we  are  in  great 
danger ; 
The  greater  therefore  should  our  courage  be. — 
Good  morrow,  brother  Bedford. — God  Almighty  ! 
There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out ; 
For  our  bad  neighbour  makes  us  early  stirrers, 
Which  is  both  healthful,  and  good  husbandry : 
Besides,  they  are  our  outward  consciences. 
And  preachers  to  us  all ;  admonishing, 
That  we  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end.'^ 
Thus  may  we  gather  honey  from  the  weed, 
And  make  a  moral  of  the  devil  himself. 

Enter  Erpingham, 
Good  morrow,  old  sir  Thomas  Erpingham  : 
A  good  soft  pillow  for  that  good  white  head 
Were  better  than  a  churlish  turf  of  France. 

Erp.  Not  so,  my  liege  ;  this  lodging  likes  me 
better, 
Since  I  may  say — now  lie  I  like  a  king. 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  good  for  men  to  love  their  present 
pains, 
Upon  example ;  so  the  spirit  is  eased  : 
And,  when  the  mind  is  quicken'd,  out  of  doubt, 
The  organs,  though  defunct  and  dead  before, 
Break  up  their  drowsy  grave,  and  newly  move 
With  casted  slough  and  fresh  legerity." 
Lend  me  thy  cloak,  sir  Thomas. — Brothers  both. 
Commend  me  to  the  princes  in  our  camp  ; 
Do  ray  good  morrow  to  them ;  and,  anon, 
Desire  them  all  to  my  pavilion. 

Olo.  We  shall,  my  liege.  \Exeunt  Glo.  and  Bed. 

Erp.  Shall  I  attend  your  grace  ? 

K.  Hen.  No,  my  good  knight ; 

Go  with  my  brothers  to  my  lords  of  England  : 
I  and  my  bosom  must  debate  a  while, 
And  then  I  would  no  other  company. 

Erp.  The  Lord   in  heaven   bless   thee,  noble 
Harry  !  [Exit  Erp. 

K.  Hen.  God-a-mercy,  old  heart !  thou  speakest 
cheerfully. 

Enter  Pistol. 

PiiU  Qui  va  Id  ? 
840 


K.  Hen.  A  friend. 

Pist.  Discuss  unto  me  :  Art  thou  officer  ? 
Or  art  thou  base,  common,  and  popular  ? 

K.  Hen.  I  am  a  gentleman  of  a  company. 

Pist.  Trailest  thou  the  puissant  pike  ? 

K.  Hen.  Even  so :  What  are  you  ? 

Pist,  As  good  a  gentleman  as  the  emperor. 

K.  Hen.  Then  you  are  a  better  than  the  king. 

Pist.  The  king  's  a  bawcock,  and  a  heart  of 
gold, 
A  lad  of  life,  an  imp  of  fame  ; 
Of  parents  good,  of  fist  most  valiant : 
I  kiss  his  dirty  shoe,  and  from  ray  heart-strings 
I  love  the  lovely  bully.     What  's  thy  name  ? 

K.  Hen.  Harry  le  Roy. 

Pist.  Le  Roy !  a  Cornish  name:  art  thou  of 
Cornish  crew  ? 

K.  Hen.  No,  I  am  a  Welshman. 

Pist.  Knowest  thou  Fluellen  ? 

K.  Hen.  Yes. 

Pist.  Tell  him,  I  '11  knock  his  leek  about  hia 
pate, 
Upon  Saint  Davy's  day. 

K.  Hen.  Do  not  you  wear  your  dagger  in  your 
cap  that  day,  lest  he  knock  that  about  yours. 

Pist.  Art  thou  his  friend  ? 

K.  Hen.  And  his  kinsman  too. 

Pist.  The  figo  for  thee  then  ! 

K,  Hen.  I  thank  you :  God  be  with  you  ! 

Pist.  My  name  is  Pistol  called.  [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  It  sorts  well  with  your  fierceness. 

Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower,  severally. 

Ooio.  Captain  Fluellen  ! 

Flu.  So  !  in  the  name  of  Cheshu  Christ,  speak 
lower.  It  is  the  greatest  admiration  in  the  uni- 
versal 'orld,  when  the  true  and  auncient  preroga- 
tifes  and  laws  of  the  wars  is  not  kept :  if  you  would 
take  the  pains  but  to  examine  the  wars  of  Pom- 
pey  the  Great,  you  shall  find,  I  warrant  you,  that 
there  is  no  tiddle  taddle,  or  pibble  pabble,  in  Pom- 
pey's  camp  ;  I  warrant  you,  you  shall  find  the 
ceremonies  of  the  wars,  and  the  cares  of  it,  and. 
the  forms  of  it,  and  the  sobriety  of  it,  and  the 
modesty  of  it,  to  be  otherwise. 

Oow.  Why,  the  enemy  is  loud ;  you  heard 
him  all  night. 

Flu.  If  the  enemy  is  an  ass  and  a  fool,  and  a 
prating  coxcomb,  is  it  meet,  think  you,  that  we 
should  also,  look  you,  be  an  ass,  and  a  fool,  and  a 
prating  coxcomb  ;  in  your  own  conscience  now  ? 

Gow.  I  will  speak  lower. 


ACT   IV 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCKNE    I. 


Flu.  I  pi  ay  you,  and  beseech  you,  that  you 
will.  \Exeunt  Gow.  and  Flu. 

K.  Hen.  Though  it  appear  a  little  out  of  fashion, 
There  is  much  care  and  valour  in  this  Welshman. 

Enter  Bates,  Court,  and  Williams. 

Court.  Brother  John  Bates,  is  not  that  the 
morning  which  breaks  yonder  ? 

Bates.  I  think  it  be :  but  we  have  no  great 
cause  to  desire  the  approach  of  day. 

Will.  We  see  yonder  the  beginning  of  the  day, 
but,  I  think,  we  shall  never  see  the  end  of  it. — 
Who  goes  there  ? 

K.  Hen.  A  friend. 

Will.  Under  what  captain  serve  you  ? 

K.  Hen.  Under  sir  Thomas  Erpingham. 

Will.  A  good  old  commander,  and  a  most  kind 
gentleman :  I  pray  you,  what  thinks  he  of  our 
estate  ? 

K.  Hen.  Even  as  men  wrecked  upon  a  sand, 
that  look  to  be  washed  off  the  next  tide. 

Bates.  He  hath  not  told  his  thought  to  the 
.ving  ? 

K.  Hen.  No  ;  nor  it  is  not  meet  he  should. 
For,  though  I  speak  it  to  you,  I  think,  the  king  is 
but  a  man,  as  I  am :  the  violet  smells  to  him,  as 
it  doth  to  me;  the  element  shows  to  him,  as  it 
doth  to  me ;  all  his  senses  have  but  human  con- 
ditions ;  his  ceremonies  laid  by,  in  his  nakedness 
he  appears  but  a  man  ;  and  though  his  affections 
are  higher  mounted  than  ours,  yet,  when  they 
stoop,  they  stoop  with  the  like  wing ;  therefore 
when  he  sees  reason  of  fears,  as  we  do,  his  ffears, 
out  of  doubt,  be  of  the  same  relish  as  ours  are : 
Yet,  in  reason,  no  man  should  possess  him  with 
any  appearance  of  fear,  lest  he,  by  showing  it, 
should  dishearten  his  array. 

Bates.  He  may  show  what  outward  courage  he 
will :  but,  I  believe,  as  cold  a  night  as  't  is,  he 
could  wish  himself  in  the  Thames  up  to  the  neck  ; 
and  so  I  would  he  were,  and  I  by  him,  at  all  ad- 
ventures, so  we  were  quit  here. 

K.  Ken.  By  my  troth,  I  will  speak  my  con- 
science of  the  king ;  I  think,  he  would  not  wish 
himself  any  where  but  where  he  is. 

Bates  Then,  'would  he  were  here  alone ;  so 
should  he  be  sure  to  be  ransomed,  and  a  many 
poor  men's  lives  saved. 

K.  Hen.  I  dare  say,  you  love  him  not  so  ill,  to 
wish  him  here  alone ;  howsoever  you  speak  this, 
to  feel  other  men's  minds :  Methinks,  I  could  not 
die  any  where  so  contented,  as  in  the  king's  com- 

106 


pany ;    his   cause   being    just,    and   his    quarrel 
honourable. 

Will.  That 's  more  than  we  know. 

Bates.  Ay,  or  more  than  we  should  seek  after ; 
for  we  know  enough,  if  we  know  we  are  the  king's 
subjects;  if  his  cause  be  wrong,  our  obedience  to 
the  king  wipes  the  crime  of  it  out  of  us. 

Will.  But,  if  the  cause  be  not  good,  the  king 
himself  hath  a  heavy  reckoning  to  make ;  when 
all  those  legs,  and  arms,  and  heads,  chopped  off 
in  a  battle,  shall  join  together  at  the  latter  day. 
and  cry  all — We  died  at  such  a  place ;  some, 
swearing;  some,  crying  for  a  surgeon;  some, 
upon  their  wives  left  poor  behind  them ;  some, 
upon  the  debts  they  owe ;  some,  upon  their  chil- 
dren rawly  left.  I  am  afeard  there  are  few  die 
well,  that  die  in  battle ;  for  how  can  they  chari- 
tably dispose  of  any  thing,  when'  blood  is  their 
argument?  Now,  if  these  men  do  not  die  well, 
it  will  be  a  black  matter  for  the  king  that  led 
them  to  it;  whom  to  disobey,  were  against  all 
proportion  of  subjection. 

K.  Hen.  So,  if  a  son,  that  is  by  his  father  sent 
about  merchandise,  do  sinfully  miscarry  upon  the 
sea,  the  imputation  of  his  wickedness,  by  your 
rule,  should  be  imposed  upon  his  father  that  seni 
him  :  or  it  a  servant,  under  his  master's  command, 
transporting  a  sum  of  money,  be  assailed  by  rob- 
bers, and  die  in  many  ii reconciled  iniquities,  you 
may  call  the  business  of  the  master  the  author  of 
the  servant's  damnation  : — But  this  is  not  so  :  the 
king  is  not  bound  to  answer  the  particular  endings 
of  his  soldiers,  the  father  of  his  son,  nor  the  master 
of  his  servant ;  for  they  purpose  not  their  death, 
when  they  purpose  their  services.  Besides,  there  is 
no  king,  be  his  cause  never  so  spotless,  if  it  come 
to  the  arbitreraent  of  swords,  can  try  it  out  with 
all  unspotted  soldiers.  Some,  peradventure,  have 
on  them  the  guilt  of  premeditated  and  contrived 
murder ;  some,  of  beguiling  virgins  with  the 
broken  seals  of  perjury ;  some,  making  the  wars 
their  bulwark,  that  have  before  gored  the  gentle 
bosom  of  jieace  with  pillage  and  robbery.  Now, 
if  these  men  have  defeated  the  law,  and  outrun 
native  punishment,  though  they  can  outstrip  men, 
they  have  no  wings  to  Ay  from  God  :  war  is  his 
beadle,  war  is  his  vengeance ;  so  that  here  men 
are  punished,  for  before-breach  of  the  king's  laws, 
in  now  the  king's  quarrel :  where  they  feared  the 
death,  they  have  borne  life  away  ;  and  where  they 
would  be  safe,  they  perish :  Then  if  they  die  un- 
provided, no  more  is  the  king  guilty  of  their  dam- 

841 


ACT   IV 


KING  HENRZ  THE  FIFTH. 


8CBNB    I. 


nation  than  he  was  before  guilty  of  those  impieties 
for  the  which  they  are  now  visited.  Every  sub- 
ject's duty  is  the  king's ;  but  every  subject's  soul 
is  his  own.  Therefore  should  every  soldier  in  the 
wars  do  as  every  sick  man  in  his  bed,  wash  every 
mote  out  of  his  conscience  :  and  dying  so,  death 
is  to  him  advantage ;  or  not  dying,  the  time  was 
blessedly  lost,  wherein  such  preparation  was  gain- 
ed :  and,  in  him  that  escapes,  it  were  not  sin  to 
think,  that  making  God  so  free  an  offer,  he  let 
him  outlive  that  day  to  see  his  greatness,  and  to 
teach  others  how  they  should  prepare. 

Will.  'T  is  certain,  every  man  that  dies  ill,  the 
ill  is  upon  his  own  head,  the  king  is  not  to  answer 
for  it. 

Bates.  I  do  not  desire  he  should  answer  for  me  ; 
and  yet  I  determine  to  fight  lustily  for  him, 

K.  Hen.  I  myself  heard  the  king  say,  he  would 
not  be  ransomed. 

Will.  Ay,  he  said  so,  to  make  us  fight  cheer- 
fully :  but,  when  our  throats  are  cut,  he  may  be 
ransomed,  and  we  ne'er  the  wiser. 

K.  Hen.  If  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  never  trust  his 
word  after. 

Will.  'Mass,  you  '11  pay  him  then  ?^  That 's  a 
perilous  shot  out  of  an  elder  gun,  that  a  poor  and 
private  displeasure  can  do  against  a  monarch ! 
you  may  as  well  go  about  to  turn  the  sun  to  ice, 
with  fanning  in  his  face  with  a  peacock's  feather. 
You  '11  never  trust  his  word  after !  come,  't  is  a 
foolish  saying. 

K.  Hen.  Your  reproof  is  something  too  round ; 
I  should  be  angry  with  you,  if  the  time  were  con- 
venient. 

Will.  Let  it  be  a  quarrel  between  us,  if  you 
live. 

K.  Hen.  I  embrace  it. 

Will.  How  shall  I  know  thee  again  ? 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  any  gage  of  thine,  and  I  will 
wear  it  in  my  bonnet :  then,  if  ever  thou  darest 
acknowledge  it,  I  will  make  it  my  quarrel. 

Will.  Here  's  my  glove ;  give  me  another  of 
thine. 

K.  Hen.  There. 

Will.  This  will  I  also  wear  in  my  cap :  if  ever 
thou  come  to  me  and  say,  after  to-morrow,  "  This 
is  my  glove,"  by  this  hand,  1  will  take  thee  a  bo.x 
on  the  ear. 

K.  Hen.  If  ever  I  live  to  see  it,  I  will  challenge  it. 

Will.  Thou  darest  as  well  be  hanged. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  I  will  do  it,  though  I  take  thee 
in  the  king's  company. 
842 


Will.  Keep  thy  word ;  fare  tnee  well. 

Bates.  Be  friends,  you  English  fools,  be  friends ; 
we  have  French  quarrels  enough,  if  you  could 
tell  h('W  to  reckon. 

K.  Hen.  Indeed,  the  French  may  lay  twenty 
French  crowns  to  one,  they  will  beat  us ;  for  they 
bear  them  on  their  shoulders :  13ut  it  is  no  Eng- 
lish treason,  to  cut  French  crowns;  and,  to-morrow, 
the  king  himself  will  be  a  clipper. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers. 
Upon  the  king!  let  us  our  lives,  our  souls, 
Our  debts,  our  careful  wives,  our  children,  and 
Our  sins,  lay  on  the  king ; — we  must  bear  all. 
0  hard  condition  !  twin-born  with  greatness, 
Subjected  to  the  breath  of  every  fool, 
Whose  sense  no  more  can  feel  but  his  own  wnng- 

ing! 
What  infinite  heart's  ease  must  kings  neglect, 
That  private  men  enjoy  ? 

And  what  have  kings,  that  privates  have  not  too, 
Save  ceremony,  save  general  ceremony  ? 
And  what  art  thou,  thou  idol  ceremony  ? 
What  kind  of  god  art  thou,  that  suffer'st  more 
Of  mortal  griefs,  than  do  thy  worshippers  ? 
What  are  thy  rents  ?  what  are  thy  comings-in  ? 

0  ceremony,  show  me  but  thy  worth  ! 
What  is  the  soul  of  adoration  ? 

Art  tliou  aught  else  but  place,  degree,  and  form, 

Creating  awe  and  fear  in  other  men  ? 

Wherein  thou  art  less  happy  being  fear'd 

Than  they  in  fearing. 

What  drink'st  thou  oft,  instead  of  homage  sweet, 

But  poison'd  flattery  ?    O,  be  sick,  great  greatness. 

And  bid  thy  ceremony  give  thee  cure  ! 

Think'st  thou,  the  fiery' fever  will  go  out 

With  titles  blown  from  adulation? 

Will  it  give  place  to  flexure  and  low  bending  ? 

Canst  thou,  when  thou  comraand'st  the  beggar's 

knee. 
Command  the  health  of  it  ?  No,  thou  proud  dream, 
That  play'st  so  subtly  with  a  king's  repose  ; 

1  am  a  king,  that  find  thee ;  and  I  know, 
'T  is  not  the  balm,  the  sceptre,  and  the  ball, 
The  sword,  the  mace,  the  crown  imperial. 
The  enter-tissued  robe  of  gold  and  pearl, 
The  farced  title  running  'fore  the  king. 
The  throne  he  sits  on,  nor  the  tide  of  pomp 
That  beats  upon  the  high  shore  of  this  world, 
No,  not  all  these,  thrice-gorgeous  ceremony, 
Not  all  these,  laid  in  bed  majestical. 

Can  sleep  so  soundly  as  the  wretched  slave ; 
Who,  with  a  body  fiU'd,  and  vacant  mind. 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCEl^K   n. 


Gets  him  to  rest,  cramm'd  with  distressful  bread ; 
Never  sees  horrid  night,  the  child  of  hell ; 
But,  like  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  set. 
Sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,  and  all  night 
Sleeps  in  Elysium  ;  next  day,  after  dawn. 
Doth  rise,  and  help  Hyperion  to  his  horse ; 
And  follow  so  the  ever-running  year 
With  profitable  labour,  to  his  grave : 
And,  but  for  ceremony,  such  a  wretch, 
Winding  up  days  with  toil,  and  nights  with  sleep. 
Had  the  fore-hand  and  vantage  of  a  king. 
I     The  slave,  a  member  of  the  country's  peace, 
j     Enjoys  it;  but  in  gross  brains  little  wots, 

What    watch   the   king   keeps   to   maintain    the 

peace, 
Whose  hours  the  peasant  best  advantages. 

Enter  Erpingham. 

Erp.  My  lord,  your  nobles,  jealous  of  your  ab- 
sence, 
Seek  through  your  camp  to  find  you. 

K.  Hen.  Good  old  knight, 

Collect  them  all  together  at  my  tent: 
I  '11  be  before  thee. 

Erp.  I  shall  do 't,  my  lord.         [Exit. 

K.  Hen.  O  God  of  battles !  steel  my  soldiers' 
hearts ! 
Possess  them  not  with  fear ;  take  from  them  now 
The  sense  of  reckoning,  if  the  opposed  numbers 
Pluck  their  hearts  from  them ! — Not  to-day,  O 
Lord, 

0  not  to-day,  think  not  upon  the  fault 
My  father  made  in  compassing  the  crown ! 

1  Richard's  body  have  interred  new  ; 
And  on  it  have  bestow'd  more  contrite  tears. 
Than  from  it  issued  forced  drops  of  blood. 
Five  hundred  poor  I  have  in  yearly  pay. 
Who  twice  a  day  their  wither'd  hands  hold  up 
Toward  heaven,  to  pardon  blood  ;    and   I    have 

built 
Two  chantries,  where  the  sad  and  solemn  priests 
Sing  still  for  Richard's  soul.     More  will  I  do : 
Though  all  that  I  can  do,  is  nothing  worth ; 
Since  that  my  penitence  comes  after  all, 
Imploring  pardon. 

Enter  Gloster. 

Olo.  My  liege ! 

K.  Hen.        My  brother  Gloster's  voice  ? — Ay ; 
I  know  thy  errand,  I  will  go  with  thee : — 
The  day,  my  friends,  and  all  things  stay  for  me. 

\Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— 7%e  French  Camp. 
^nfer  Dauphin,  Orleans,  RAMBUREs,a?ii  Others 

Orl.  The  sun  doth  gild  our  armour ;  up,  my 
lords. 

Dau.  Montez  a  cheval : — My  horse!  valet f  lac- 
quay  f  ha! 

Orl.  0  brave  spirit ! 

Dau.   Via  ! — les  eaux  et  la  terre 

Orl.  Rienpuis?  Vair  et  lefeu 

Dau.  del !  cousin  Orleans. 

Enter  Constable. 

Now,  my  lord  Constable ! 

Con.  Hark,  how  our  steeds  for  present  service 

neigh. 
Dau.  Mount  them,  and  make  incision  in  their 
hides ; 
That  their  hot  blood  may  spin  in  English  eyes. 
And  dout  them  with  superfluous  courage :  Ha ! 
Ram.  What,   will   you  have  them   weep  our 
horses'  blood  ? 
How  shall  we  then  behold  their  natural  tears  ? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  The  English  are  embattled,  you  French 

peers. 
Con.  To  horse,  you  gallant  princes  !  straight  to 

horse ! 
Do  but  behold  yon  poor  and  starved  band, 
And  your  fair  show  shall  suck  away  their  souls, 
Leaving  them  but  the  shales  and  husks  of  men. 
There  is  not  work  enough  for  all  our  hands ; 
Scarce  blood  enough  in  all  their  sickly  veins, 
To  give  each  naked  curtle-axe  a  stain, 
That  our  French  gallants  shall  to-day  draw  out, 
And  sheath  for  lack  of  sport :  let  us  but  blow  on 

them, 
The  vapour  of  our  valour  will  o'erturn  them. 
'T  is  positive  'gainst  all  exceptions,  lords, 
That  our  superfluous  lackeys,  and  our  peasants,— 
Who,  in  unnecessary  action,  swarm 
About  our  squares  of  battle, — were  enough 
To  purge  this  field  of  such  a  hilding  foe ; 
Though  we,  upon  this  mountain's  basis  by 
Took  stand  for  idle  speculation  : 
But  that  our  honours  must  not.     What's  to  say! 
A  very  little  little  let  us  do. 
And  all  is  done.     Then  let  the  trumpets  sound 
The  tucket-sonnance,'*  and  the  note  to  mount ; 
For  our  approach  shall  so  much  dare  the  field, 

843 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


That  England   shall   couch   down   in   fear,  and 

yield. 

Enter  Grandpre. 

Grand.  Why  do  you  stay  so  long,  my  lords  of 
France  ? 
Yon  island  carrions,  desperate  of  their  bones, 
Ill-favour'dly  become  the  morning  field  : 
Their  ragged  curtains  poorly  are  let  loose, 
And  our  air  shakes  them  passing  scornfully. 
Big  Mars  seems  bankrupt  in  their  beggar'd  host. 
And  faintly  through  a  rusty  beaver  peeps. 
Their  horsemen  sit  like  fixed  candlesticks, 
With  torch-staves  in  each  hand :  and  their  poor 

jades 
Lob  down  their  heads,  dropping  the  hides  and 

hips; 
The  gum  down-roping  from  their  pale-dead  e^es ; 
And  in  their  pale  dull  mouths  the  gimmal  bit^® 
Lies  foul  with  chew'd  grass,  still  and  motionless ; 
And  their  executors,  the  knavish  crows. 
Fly  o'er  them  all,  impatient  for  their  hour. 
Description  cannot  suit  itself  in  words, 
To  demonsti-ate  the  life  of  such  a  battle 
In  life  so  lifeless  as  it  shows  itself. 

Con.  They  have  said  their  prayers,  and  they 
stay  for  death. 

Dau.  Shall  we  go  send  them  dinners,  and  fresh 

And  give  their  fasting  horses  provender, 
And  after  fight  with  them  ? 

Con.  I  stay  but  for  my  guard  :  On,  to  the  field  : 
I  will  the  banner  from  a  trumpet  take, 
And  use  it  for  my  haste.     Come,  come  away  ! 
The  sun  is  high,  and  we  outwear  the  day. 

\Exe%int. 

SCENE  Wl.—The  English  Camp. 

Enter   the   English    Host;    Gloster,    Bedford, 
Exeter,  Salisbury,  and  Westmoreland. 

Ola.  Where  is  the  king  ? 

Bed.  The  king  himself  is  rode  to  view  their 

battle. 
West,  Of  fighting  men  they  have  full  threescore 

thousand. 
Exe.  There  's  five  to  one ;  besides,  they  all  are 

fresh. 
Sal.  God's  arm  strike  with  us  I  'tis  a  fearful 

odds, 
trod  be  wi'  you,  prince?  all ;  I  '11  to  my  charge : 
tf  wo  no  more  meet,  till  we  meet  in  heaven, 


Then,  joyfully, — my  noble  lord  of  Bedford, — 
My  dear  lord  Gloster, — and  my  good  lord  Exeter, — 
And  my  kind  kinsman, — warriors  all,  adieu. 

Bed.  Farewell,  good  Salisbury ;  and  good  luck 
go  with  thee! 

Exe.  Farewell,  kind  lord ;  fight  valiantly  to-day : 
And  yet  I  do  thee  wrong,  to  mind  thee  of  it. 
For  thou  art  fram'd  of  the  firm  truth  of  valour. 

\_Exit  Sal. 

Bed.  He  is  as  full  of  valour,  as  of  kindness  ; 
Princely  in  boih. 

West.  O  that  we  had  now  here 

Enter  King  Henry. 

But  one  ten  thousand  of  those  men  in  England, 
That  do  no  work  to-day ! 

-K^.  Hen.  What 's  he,  that  wishes  so  ? 

My  cousin  Westmoreland  ? — No,  my  fair  cousin  : 
If  we  are  mark'd  to  die,  we  are  enough 
To  do  our  country  loss ;  and  if  to  live, 
The  fewer  men,  the  greater  share  of  honour. 
God's  will !  I  pray  thee,  wish  not  one  man  more 
By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold  ; 
Nor  care  I,  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost ; 
It  yearns  me  not,  if  men  ray  garments  wear ; 
Such  outward  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires : 
But,  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honour, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 
No,  'faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  England  : 
God's  peace  !  I  would  not  lose  so  great  an  honour. 
As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from  me. 
For  the  best  hope  I  have.     0,  do  not  wish  one 

more : 
Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my  host, 
That  he,  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight, 
Let  him  depart ;  his  passport  shall  be  made, 
And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse : 
We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company. 
That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 
This  day  is  call'd — the  feast  of  Crispian  :^' 
He,  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  home, 
Will  stand  a  tip-toe  when  this  day  is  nam'd. 
And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 
He,  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see  old  age, 
Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  friends. 
And  say — to-morrow  is  Saint  Crispian  : 
Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeve,  and  show  his  scars, 
And  say,  the.se  wounds  I  had  on  Crispin's  day. 
Old  men  forget ;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot. 
But  he  '11  remember,  with  advantages. 
What  feats  he  did  that  day :  Then  shall  our  names: 
Familiar  in  their  mouths  as  household  word.s,- — 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SC'KAK   in. 


Harry  the  king,  Bedford,  and  Exeter, 

Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster, — 

Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  remeraber'd : 

This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son ; 

And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by, 

From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered  : 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers ; 

For  he,  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me, 

Shall  be  my  brother ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition : 

And  gentlemen  in  England,  now  a-bed, 

Shall  think   themselves  accurs'd,  they  were  not 

here ; 
And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap,  while  any  speaks, 
That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day. 

Enter  Salisbury. 

Sal.  My  sovereign  lord,  bestow  yourself  with 
speed  : 
The  French  are  bravely  in  their  battles  set, 
And  will  with  all  expedience  charge  on  us. 

K.  Hen.  All  things  are  ready,  if  our  minds  be  so. 
West.  Perish  the  man  whose  mind  is  backward 

now  ! 
K.  Hen.  Thou  dost  not  wish  more  help  from 

England,  cousin  ? 
West.  God's  will,  my  liege,  'would  you  and  I 
alone. 
Without  more  help,  might  fight  this  battle  out  1 
K.  Hen.  Why,  now  thou  hast  unwish'd  five 
thousand  men; 
Which  likes  me  better,  than  to  wish  us  one. — 
You  know  your  places :  God  be  with  you  all ! 

Tucket.     Enter  Montjoy. 

Mont.  Once  more  I  come  to  know  of  thee,  king 
Harry, 
If  for  thy  ransom  thou  wilt  tiow  compound. 
Before  thy  most  assured  overthrow  ; 
For,  certainly,  thou  art  so  near  the  gulf, 
Thou  needs  must  be  englutted.    Besides,  in  mercy, 
The  Constable  desires  thee — thou  wilt  mind 
Thy  followers  of  repentance  ;  that  their  souls 
May  make  a  peaceful  and  a  sweet  retire 
From  off  these  fields,  where  (wretches)  their  poor 

bodies 
Must  lie  and  fester. 

K.  Hen.  Who  hath  sent  thee  now  ? 

Mont.  The  Constable  of  France. 
K  Hen.  I  pray  thee,  bear  my  former  answer 
back; 


Bid  them  acRieve  me,  and  then  seL  my  bones. 
Good  God !  whv  should  they  mock  poor  fellows 

thus? 
The  man,  that  once  did  sell  the  lion's  skin 
While  the  beast  lived,  was  kill'd  with  hunting 

him. 
A  many  of  our  bodies  shall,  no  doubt, 
Find  native  graves  ;  upon  the  which,  I  truot, 
Shall  witness  live  in  brass  of  this  day's  work : 
And  those  that  leave  their  valiant  bones  in  France, 
Dying  like  men,  though  buried  in  your  dunghills, 
They  shall  be  fam'd  ;  for  there  the  sun  shall  greet 

them. 
And  draw  their  honours  reeking  up  to  heaven  ; 
Leaving  their  earthly  parts  to  choke  your  clime. 
The  smell  whereof  shall  breed  a  plague  in  Fi-ance. 
Mark  then  a  bounding  valour  in  our  English ; 
That,  being  dead,  like  to  the  bullet's  grazing, 
Break  out  into  a  second  course  of  mischief, 
Killing  in  relapse  of  mortality. 
Let  me  speak  proudly  : — Tell  the  Constable, 
We  are  but  warriors  for  the  working  day  : 
Our  gayness,  and  our  gilt,  are  all  besn#rch\} 
With  rainy  marching  in  the  painful  field  ; 
There  's  not  a  piece  of  feather  in  our  host, 
(Good  argument,  I  hope,  we  shall  not  fly,) 
And  time  hath  worn  us  into  slovenry  : 
But,  by  the  mass,  our  hearts  are  in  the  trim  : 
And  my  poor  soldiers  tell  me — yet  ere  night 
They  '11  be  in  fresher  robes ;  or  they  will  pluck 
The   gay    new    coats   o'er   the   French    soldiers' 

heads. 
And  turn  them  out  of  service.     If  they  do  this, 
(As,  if  God  please,  they  shall,)  my  ransom  then 
Will  soon  be  levied.   Herald,  save  thou  thy  labour ; 
Come  thou  no  more  for  ransom,  gentle  herald  ; 
They  shall  have  none,  I  swear,  but  these  my  joints  ; 
Which  if  they  have  as  I  will  leave  'em  to  them. 
Shall  yield  them  little,  tell  the  Constable. 

Mont.  I  shall,  king  Harry.     And  so  fare  thee 

well  : 
Thou  never  shalt  hear  herald  any  more.       [Exit. 
K.  Hen.  I  fear,  thou  'It  once  more  come  again 

for  ransom. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  York.* 

Yoi-Je.  My  lord,  most  humbly  on  my  knee  I  beg 
The  leading  of  the  vaward. 

K.  Hen.  Take  it,  brave  York. — Now,  soldiers, 
march  away : — 
And  how  thou  pleasest,  God,  dispose  the  day  ! 

[Exeiint. 
846 


ACT  rv 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    IV-v. 


SCENE  lY.—The  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums :  Excursions.     Enter  French  Soldier, 
Pistol,  and  Boy. 

Fist.  Yield,  cur. 

Fr.  Sol.  Je  pense,  que  vous  estes  le  gentilhomme 
de  bonne  qualite. 

Pist.  Quality,  call  you  me  ? — Construe  me,  art 
thou  a  gentleman  ?  What  is  thy  name  ?  discuss. 

Fr.  Sol.   0  seigneur  Dieu  ! 

Pist.  0,  signieur  Dew  should  be  a  gentleman  : — 
Perpend  my  words,  O  signieur  Dew,  and  mark  ; — 
0  signieur  Dew,  thou  diest  on  point  of  fox,''-* 
Except,  0  signieur,  thou  do  give  to  me 
Effresrious  ransom. 

Fr.  Sol.  0,  prennez  misericorde  !  ayez  pitie  de 
moy  ! 

Pist.  Moy  shall  not  serve,  I  will  have  forty 
moys; 
For  I  will  fetch  thy  rim  out  at  thy  throat,*' 
In  drops  of  crimson  blood. 

Fr.  Sat.  Est  il  impossible  d^eschapper  la  force 
de  ton  bras  ? 

Pist.  Brass,  cur! 
Thou  damned  and  luxurious  mountain  goat, 
Offer'st  me  brass  ? 

Fr.  Sol.  0  pardonnez  moy  ! 

Pist.   Say'st  thou   me   so  ?    is  that  a  ton   of 
moys?*' — 
Come  hither,  boy  :  A.sk  me  this  slave  in  French, 
What  is  his  name. 

Boy.  Escoutez  ;   Comment  estes  vous  appelle  ? 

Fr.  Sol.  Monsieur  le  Fer. 

Boy.  He  says,  his  name  is — master  Fer. 

Pist.  Master  Fer !  I  '11  fer  him,  and  firk  him, 
and  ferret  him : — discuss  the  same  in  French  unto 
him. 

Boy.  I  do  not  know  the  French  for  fer,  and 
ferret,  and  firk. 

Pist.  Bid  him  prepare,  for  I  will  cut  his  throat. 

Fr.  Sol.  Que  dit-il,  monsieur  ? 

Boy.  II  me  commande  de  vous  dire  que  vous 
faites  vous  prest ;  car  ce  soldat  icy  est  dispose 
tout  a  cette  heure  de  couper  vostre  gorge. 

Pist.  Ouy,  couper  gorge,  par  ma  foy,  pesant. 
Unless  thou  give  me  crowns,  brave  crowns ; 
Or  mangled  shalt  thou  be  by  this  my  sword. 

Fr.  Sol.  0,  je  vous  supplie  pour  Vamour  de 
JJieu,  me  pardonner  !  Je  suis  gentilhomme  de 
bonne  maison  ;  gardez  ma  vie,  etje  vous  donneray 
deut  'enta  escus. 

846 


Pist.  What  are  his  words  ? 

Boy.  He  prays  you  to  save  his  life :  he  is  a 
gentleman  of  a  good  house  :  and,  for  his  ransom, 
he  will  give  you  two  hundred  crowns. 

Pist.  Tell  him, — my  fury  shall  abate,  and  I 
The  crowns  will  take. 

Fr.  Sol.  Petit  monsieur,  que  dit-il  ? 

Boy.  Encore  quHl  est  contre  son  jurem-ent,  de 
pardonner  aucun  prisonnier  ;  neantmoins,  pour  les 
escus  que  vous  Vavez  promts,  il  est  content  de  vous 
donner  la  liberie,  le  franchisement, 

Fr.  Sol.  Sur  mes  genoux,je  vous  donne  mille 
remerciemens  :  etje  m'estime  heureux  que  je  suis 
tombe  entre  les  mains  d'un  chevalier,  je  pense, 
le  plus  brave,  valiant,  et  tres  distingui  seigneur 
d^Angleterre. 

Pist.  Expound  unto  me,  boy. 

Boy.  He  gives  you,  upon  his  knees,  a  thousand 
thanks :  and  he  esteems  himself  happy  that  he 
hath  fallen  into  the  hands  of  (as  he  thinks)  the 
most  brave,  valorous,  and  thrice-worthy  signieur 
of  England. 

Pist.  As  I  suck  blood,  I  will  some  mercy  show. — 
Follow  me,  cur.  [Exit  Pist. 

Boy.  Suivez  vous  le  grand  capitaine. 

[Exit  Fr.  Sol. 
I  did  never  know  so  full  a  voice  issue  from  so 
empty  a  heart;  but  the  saying  is  true, — The 
empty  vessel  makes  the  greatest  sound.  Bar- 
dolph,  and  Nym,  had  ten  times  more  valour  than 
this  roaring  devil  i'  the  old  play,*'  that  every  one 
may  pare  his  nails  with  a  wooden  dagger ;  and 
they  are  both  hanged ;  and  so  would  this  be,  if 
he  durst  steal  any  thing  adventurously.  I  must 
stay  with  the  lackeys,  with  the  luggage  of  our 
camp :  the  French  might  have  a  good  prey  of  us, 
if  he  knew  of  it ;  for  there  is  none  to  guard  it,  but 
boys.  [Exit, 

SCENE  Y.— Another  Part  of  the  Field  o/ 
Battle. 

Alarums.     Enter  Dauphin,  Orleans,  Bourbon, 
Constable,  Rambures,  and  Others. 

Con.   0  diable ! 

Or  I.   0  seigneur  ! — le  jour  est  perdu,  tout  est 

2)erdu  ! 
Dau.  Mort  de  ma  vie!  all  is  confounded,  all ' 
Reproach  and  everlasting  shame 
Sits  mocking  in  our  plumes. —  0  meschante  /or 

tune ! — 
Do  not  run  away.  [A  short  Alarum 


ACT  rv. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE  Vl-VII. 


C(m.  Why,  all  our  ranks  are  broke. 

Bau.   0  perdurable  shame ! — let  's  stab  our- 
selves. 
Be  these  the  wretches  that  we  play'd  at  dice  for  ? 
Orl.  Is  this  the  king  we  sent  to  for  his  ransom  ? 
Bour.  Shame,  and  eternal  shame,  nothing  but 
shame  ! 
Let  us  die  instant :  Once  more  back  again  ; 
And  he  that  will  not  follow  Bourbon  now, 
Let  him  go  hence,  and,  with  his  cap  in  hand, 
Like  a  base  pander,  hold  the  chamber-door. 
Whilst  by  a  slave,  no  gentler  than  my  dog, 
His  fairest  daughter  is  contaminate. 

Con.  Disorder,  that  hath  spoil'd  us,  friend  us 
now! 
Let  us,  in  heaps,  go  oflfer  up  our  lives 
Unto  these  English,  or  else  die  with  fame. 

Orl.  We  are  enough  yet  living  in  the  field. 
To  smother  up  the  English  in  our  throngs. 
If  any  order  might  be  thought  upon. 

Bour.  The  devil  take  order  now  !  I  '11  to  the 
throng ; 
Let  life  be  short ;  else,  shame  will  be  too  long. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  Yl.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.     Enter  King  Henry  and  Forces ;  Ex- 
eter, and  Others. 

K.  Hen,  Well  have  we  done,  thrice-valiant  coun- 
trymen ; 
But  all 's  not  done,  yet  keep  the  French  the  field. 

Exe.  The  duke  of  York  commends  him  to  your 
majesty. 

K.  Hen.  Lives  he,  good  uncle  ?  thrice  within 
this  hour, 
I  saw  him  down ;  thrice  up  again,  and  fighting ; 
From  helmet  to  the  spur,  all  blood  he  was. 

Exe.  In  which  array,  (brave  soldier,)  doth  he  lie, 
Larding  the  plain  :  and  by  his  bloody  side, 
(Yoke-fellow  to  his  honour-owing  wounds,) 
The  noble  earl  of  Suffolk  also  lies. 
Sufiblk  first  died  :  and  York,  all  haggled  over. 
Comes  to  him,  where  in  gore  he  lay  insteep'd, 
And  takes  him  by  the  beard  ;  kisses  the  gashes. 
That  bloodily  did  yawn  upon  his  face ; 
And  cries  aloud, — "  Tarry,  dear  cousin  Sufiblk ! 
My  soul  shall  thine  keep  company  to  heaven  : 
Tarry,  sweet  soul,  for  mine,  then  fly  a-breast ; 
As,  in  this  glorious  and  well-foughten  field. 
We  kept  together  in  our  chivalry  !" 
Upon  these  words  I  came,  and  cheer'd  him  up : 


He  smil'd  me  in  the  face,  raught  me  his  hand. 

And,  with  a  feeble  gripe,  says, — "  Dear  my  lord, 

Commend  my  service  to  my  sovereign." 

So  did  he  turn,  and  over  Suffolk's  neck 

He  threw  his  wounded  arm,  and  kiss'd  his  lips ; 

And  so,  espous'd  to  death,  with  blood  lie  seal'd 

A  testament  of  noble-ending  love. 

The  pretty  and  sweet  manner  of  it  forc'd 

Those  waters  from  me,  which  I  would  have  stopp'd ; 

But  I  had  not  so  much  of  man  in  me. 

But  all  my  mother  came  into  mine  eyes, 

And  gave  me  up  to  tears. 

K.  Hen.  I  blame  you  not ; 

For,  hearing  this,  I  must  perforce  compound 
With  mistful  eyes,  or  they  will  issue  too.    [Alarum. 
But,  hark  !  what  new  alarum  is  this  same  ? 
The  French  have  reinforced  their  scatter'd  men : — 
Then  every  soldier  kill  his  prisoners  ; 
Give  the  word  through.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VU.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.     Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower. 

Flu.  Kill  the  poys  and  the  luggage !  't  is  ex- 
pressly against  the  law  of  arms :  't  is  as  ari-ant  a 
piece  of  knavery,  mark  you  now,  as  can  be  offered, 
in  the  'orld  :  In  your  conscience  now,  is  it  not  ? 

Gow.  'T  is  certain,  there  's  not  a  boy  left  alive 
and  the  cowardly  rascals,  that  ran  from  the  bat- 
tle, have  done  this  slaughter  :  besides,  they  have 
burned  and  carried  away  all  that  was  in  the  king's 
tent;  wherefore  the  king,  most  worthily,  hath 
caused  every  soldier  to  cut  his  prisoner's  throat. 
0,  't  is  a  gallant  king ! 

Flu.  Ay,  he  was  porn  at  Monmouth,  captain 
Gower :  What  call  you  the  town's  name,  where 
Alexander  the  pig  was  born  ? 

Gow.  Alexander  the  Great. 

Flu.  Why,  I  pray  you,  is  not  pig,  great  ?  The 
pig,  or  the  great,  or  the  mighty,  or  the  huge,  or 
the  magnanimous,  are  all  one  reckonings,  save  the 
phrase  is  a  little  variations. 

Goiv.  I  think,  Alexander  the  Great  was  born 
in  Macedon  ;  his  father  was  c-Uled — Philip  of  Ma- 
cedon,  as  I  take  it. 

Flu.  I  think,  it  is  in  Macedon,  where  Alexander 
is  porn.  I  tell  you,  captain, — If  you  look  in  the 
maps  of  the  'orld,  I  warrant,  you  shall  find,  in  the 
comparisons  between  Macedon  and  Monmouth, 
that  the  situations,  look  you,  is  both  alike.  There 
is  a  river  in  Macedon ;  and  there  is  also  moreover 
a  river  at  Monmouth :  it  is  called  Wye,  at  Mon- 

847 


A.OT   IV, 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE  vn. 


mouth  ;  but  it  is  out  of  my  prains,  what  is  the 
name  of  the  other  river ;  but 't  is  all  one,  't  is  so 
like  as  my  fingers  is  to  my  fingers,  and  there  is 
salmons  in  both.  If  you  mark  Alexander's  life 
well,  Harry  of  Monmouth's  life  is  come  after  it  in- 
different well ;  for  there  is  figures  in  all  things. 
Alexander  (God  knows,  and  you  know,)  in  his 
rages,  and  his  furies,  and  his  wraths,  and  his  cholers, 
and  his  moods,  and  his  displeasures,  and  his  indig- 
nations, and  also  being  a  little  intoxicates  in  his 
prains,  did,  in  his  ales  and  his  angers,  look  you, 
kill  his  pest  friend,  Clytus. 

Gow.  Our  king  is  not  like  him  in  that ;  he  never 
killed  any  of  his  friends. 

Flu.  It  is  not  well  done,  mark  you  know,  to 
take  tales  out  of  my  moilth,  ere  it  is  made  an  end 
and  finished.  I  speak  but  in  the  figures  and  com- 
parisons of  it :  As  Alexainder  is  kill  his  friend  Cly- 
tus, being  in  his  ales  and  his  cups ;  so  also  Harry 
Monmouth,  being  in  his  right  wits  and  his  goot 
judgments,  is  turn  awaj'  the  fat  knight  with  the 
great  pelly-doublet :  he  was  full  of  jests,  and  gipes, 
and  knaveries,  and  mocks ;  I  am  forget  his  name. 

Gow.  Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Flu.  That  is  he  :  I  can  tell  you,  there  is  goot 
men  boin  at  Monmouth. 

Gow.  Here  comes  his  majesty. 

Alarum.  Enter  King  Henry,  with  a  Part  of  the 
English  Forces  ;  Warwick,  Gloster,  Exeter, 
and  Others. 

K.  Hen.  I  was  not  angry  since  I  came  to  France 
Until  this  instant. — Take  a  trumpet,  herald  ; 
Ride  thou  unto  the  horsemen  on  yon  hill; 
If  they  will  fight  with  us,  bid  them  come  down. 
Or  void  the  field  ;  they  do  offend  our  sight : 
If  they  '11  do  neither,  we  will  come  to  them ; 
And  make  them  skirr  away,  as  swift  as  stones 
Enforced  from  the  old  Assyrian  slings : 
Besides,  we  '11  cut  the  throats  of  those  we  have ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them,  that  we  shall  take, 
Shall  taste  our  mercy  : — Go,  and  tell  them  so. 

'         Enter  Montjoy. 

Exe.  Here  comes  the  herald  of  the  French,  my 

liege. 
Glo.  His  eyes  are  humbler  than  they  us'd  to  be. 
K.  Hen.  How  now  1  what  means  this,  herald  ? 
know'st  thou  not. 
That  I  have  fin'd  these  bones  of  mine  for  ransom  ? 
Com'st  thou  again  for  ransom  ? 

Mont.  No,  great  king: 

848 


I  come  to  thee  for  charitable  licence, 
That  we  may  wander  o'er  this  bloody  field. 
To  book  our  dead,  and  then  to  bury  them ; 
To  sort  our  nobles  from  our  common  men  ; 
For  many  of  our  princes  (woe  the  while  !) 
Lie  drown'd  and  soak'd  in  mercenary  blood ; 
(So  do  our  vulgar  drench  their  peasant  limbs 
In  blood  of  princes  ;)  and  their  wounded  steeds 
Fret  fetlock  deep  in  gore,  and,  with  wild  rage, 
Yerk  out  their  armed  heels  at  their  dead  masters. 
Killing  them  twice.    0,  give  us  leave,  great  king. 
To  view  the  field  in  safety,  and  dispose 
Of  their  dead  bodies. 

K.  Hen.  I  tell  thee  truly,  herald, 

I  know  not,  if  the  day  be  ours,  or  no  ; 
For  yet  a  many  of  your  horsemen  peer. 
And  gallop  o'er  the  field. 

Mont.  The  day  is  yours. 

K.  Hen.  Praised  be  God,  and  not  our  strength, 
for  it  !— 
What  is  this  castle  call'd,  that  stands  hard  by  ? 

Mont.  They  call  it — Agincourt. 

IC.  Hen.  Then  call  we  this — the  field  of  Agin 
court. 
Fought  on  the  day  of.  Crispin  Crispianus. 

Flu.  Your  grandfather  of  famous  memory,  an  't 
please  your  majesty,  and  your  great-uncle  Edward 
the  plack  prince  of  Wales,  as  I  have  read  in  the 
chronicles,  fought  a  most  prave  pattle  here  in 
France. 

K.  Hen.  They  did,  Fluellen. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  says  very  true  :  If  your  ma- 
jesty is  remembered  of  it,  the  Welshman  did  goot 
service  in  a  garden  where  leeks  did  grow,  wearing 
leeks  in  their  Monmouth  caps ;  which,  your  ma- 
jesty knows,  to  this  hour  is  an  honourable  padge 
of  the  ser\'ice  ;  and,  I  do  believe,  your  majesty  takes 
no  scorn  to  wear  the  leek  upon  Saint  Tavy's  day. 

JC.  Hen.  I  wear  it  for  a  memorable  honour : 
For  I  am  Welsh,  you  know,  good  countryman. 

Flu.  All  the  water  in  Wye  cannot  wash  your 
majesty's  Welsh  plood  out  of  your  pody,  I  can 
tell  you  that :  Got  pless  it  and  preserve  it,  as 
long  as  it  pleases  his  grace,  and  his  majesty  too  ! 

K.  Hen.  Thanks,  good  my  countryman. 

Flu.  By  Cheshu,  I  am  your  majesty's  country 
man,  I  care  not  who  know  it ;  I  will  confess  it  to 
all  the  'orld ;  I  need  not  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
majesty,  praised  be  God,  so  long  as  your  majesty 
is  an  honest  man. 

K.  Hen.  God  keep  me  so ! — Our  heralds  go 
with  him  • 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENK   VIII. 


Bring  me  just  notice  of  the  numbers  dead 
On  both  our  parts. — Call  yonder  fellow  hither. 
[^Points  to  Will.     Exeunt  Mont,  and  Others. 

Exe.  Soldier,  you  must  come  to  the  king. 

K.  Ken.  Soldier,  why  wear'st  thou  that  glove 
in  thy  cap  ? 

Will.  An  't  please  your  majesty,  't  is  the  gage 
of  one  that  I  should  fight  withal,  if  he  be  alive. 

K.  Hen.  An  Englishman  ? 

Will.  An  't  please  your  majesty,  a  rascal,  that 
swaggered  with  me  last  night:  who,  if 'a  live,  and 
ever  dare  to  challenge  this  glove,  I  have  sworn  to 
take  him  a  box  o'  the  ear :  or,  if  I  can  see  my  glove 
in  his  cap,  (which  he  swore,  as  he  was  a  soldier,  he 
would  wear,  if  alive,)  I  will  strike  it  out  soundly. 

K.  Ren.  What  think  you,  captain  Fluellen  ?  is 
it  fit  this  soldier  keep  his  oath  ? 

Flu.  He  is  a  craven  and  a  villain  else,  an  't 
please  your  majesty,  in  my  conscience. 

K.  Hen.  It  may  be,  his  enemy  is  a  gentleman 
of  great  sort,  quite  from  the  answer  of  his  degree. 

Flu.  Though  he  be  as  goot  a  gentleman  as  the 
tevil  is,  as  Lucifer  and  Belzebub  himself,  it  is  ne- 
cessary, look  your  grace,  that  he  keep  his  vow 
and  his  oath  :  if  he  be  perjured,  see  you  now,  his 
reputation  is  as  arrant  a  villain,  and  a  Jack- 
sauce,  as  ever  his  plack  shoe  trod  upon  Got's 
ground  and  his  earth,  in  my  conscience  la. 

K.  Hen.  Then  keep  thy  vow,  sirrah,  when  thou' 
meet'st  the  fellow. 

Will.  So  I  will,  my  liege,  as  I  live. 

K.  Hen.  Who  servest  thou  under  ? 

Will.  Under  captain  Gower,  my  liege. 

Flu.  Gower  is  a  goot  captain ;  and  is  good 
knowledge  and  literature  in  the  wars, 

K.  Hen.  Call  him  hither  to  me,  soldier. 

Will.  I  will,  my  liege.  \Exit. 

K.  Hen.  Here,  Fluellen :  wear  thou  this  favour 
for  me,  and  stick  it  in  thy  cap :  When  Alenpon 
and  myself  were  down  together,  I  plucked  this 
glove  from  his  helm :  if  any  man  challenge  this, 
he  is  a  fi-iend  to  Alen9on  and  an  enemy  to  our 
person ;  if  thou  encounter  any  such,  apprehend 
him,  an  thou  dost  love  me. 

Flu.  You  grace  does  me  as  great  honours,  as 
can  be  desired  in  the  hearts  of  his  subjects :  I 
would  fain  see  the  man,  that  has  but  two  legs, 
that  shall  find  himself  aggriefed  at  this  glove,  that 
is  all ;  but  I  would  fain  see  it  once ;  an  please 
Got  of  his  grace,  that  I  might  see  it. 

K.  Hen.  Knowest  thou  Gower  ? 

Flu.  He  is  my  dear  friend,  an  please  you. 

107 


K.  Hen.  Pray  thee,  go  seek  him,  and  bring  hira 
to  my  tent. 

Flu.  I  will  fetch  him.  \Exit.. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Warwick, — and  my  brother 
Gloster, 
Follow  Fluellen  closely  at  the  heels : 
The  glove,  which  I  have  given  him  for  a  favour, 
May,  haply,  purchase  him  a  box  o'  the  ear  ; 
It  is  the  soldier's ;  I,  by  bargain,  should 
Wear  it   myself.      Follow,   good    cousin   War- 
wick: 
If  that  the  soldier  strike  him,  (as,  I  judge 
By  his  blunt  bearing,  he  will  keep  his  word,) 
Some  sudden  mischief  may  arise  of  it ; 
For  I  do  know  Fluellen  valiant, 
And,  touch'd  with  choler,  hot  as  gunpowder, 
And  quickly  will  return  an  injury  : 
Follow,  and  see  there  be  no  harm  between  them. — 
Go  you  with  me,  uncle  of  Exeter.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  NIW.— Before  King  Henry's  Pavilion. 

Enter  Gower  and  Williams. 

Will.  I  warrant,  it  is  to  knight  you,  captain. 

Enter  Fluellen 

Flu.  Got's  will  and  his  pleasure,  captain,  I  pe- 
seech  you  now,  come  apace  to  the  king :  there  is. 
more  goot  toward  you,  peradventure  than  is  in 
your  knowledge  to  dream  of. 

Will.  Sir,  know  you  this  glove  ? 

Flu.  Know  the  glove  ?  I  know,  the  glove  is  a 
glove. 

Will.  I  know  this ;  and  thus  T  challenge  it. 

[Strikes  him. 

Flu.  'Sblud,  an  arrant  traitor,  as  any  's  in  the 
universal  'orld,  or  in  France,  or  in  England. 

Gow.  How  now,  sir  ?  you  villain  ! 

Will.  Do  you  think  I  '11  be  forsworn  ? 

Flu.  Stand  away,  captain  Gower ;  I  will  give 
treason  his  payment  into  plows,  I  warrant  you. 

Will.  I  am  no  traitor. 

Flu.  That 's  a  lie  in  thy  throat. — I  charge  you 
in  his  majesty's  name,  apprehend  him ;  he  's  a 
friend  of  the  duke  Alengon's. 

Enter  Warwick  ana  Gloster. 

War.  How  now,  how  now  I  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Flu.  My  lord  of  Warwick,  here  is  (praised  be 
Got  for  it!)  a  most  contagious  treason  come  to 
light,  look  you,  as  you  shall  desire  in  a  summer's 
day.     Here  is  his  majesty. 

849 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENR^   THE  FIFTH. 


SCENK    VIII. 


Enter  King  Henry  and  Exeter. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Flu.  My  liege,  here  is  a  villain,  and  a  traitor, 
lliat,  look  your  grace,  has  struck  the  glove  which 
y  our  majesty  is  take  out  of  the  helmet  of  Alencjon. 

Will.  My  liege,  this  was  my  glove ;  here  is  the 
fellow  of  it :  and  he,  that  I  gave  it  to  in  change, 
promised  to  wear  it  in  his  cap ;  I  promised  to 
strike  him,  if  he  did  :  I  met  this  man  with  my 
glove  in  his  cap,  and  I  have  been  as  good  as  my 
word. 

Flu.  Your  majesty  hear  now,  (saving  your  ma- 
jesty's manhood,)  what  an  arrant,  rascally,  beg- 
garly, lousy  knave  it  is :  I  hope,  your  majesty  is 
pear  me  testimony,  and  witness,  and  avouchments, 
that  this  is  the  glove  of  Alenijon,  that  your  ma- 
jesty is  give  me,  in  your  conscience  now. 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  thy  glove,  soldier :  Look, 
here  is  the  fellow  of  it.  'T  was  I,  indeed,  thou 
promisedst  to  strike ;  and  thou  hast  given  me 
most  bitter  terms. 

Flu.  An  please  your  majesty,  let  his  neck 
answer  for  it,  if  there  is  any  martial  law  in  the 
orld. 

K.  Hen.  How  canst  thou  make  me  satisfaction  ? 

Will.  All  offences,  my  liege,  come  from  the 
heart:  never  came  any  from  mine,  that  might 
offend  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.  It  was  ourself  thou  didst  abuse. 

Will.  Your  majesty  came  not  like  yourself: 
you  appeared  to  me  but  as  a  common  man ;  wit- 
ness the  night,  your  garments,  your  lowliness ;  and 
what  your  highness  suffered  under  that  shape,  I 
beseech  you,  take  it  for  your  own  fault,  and  not 
mine :  for  had  you  been  as  I  took  you  for,  I  made 
no  offence;  therefore,  I  beseech  your  highness, 
pardon  me. 

K.  Hen.  Here,  uncle  Exeter,  fill  this  glove  with 
crowns, 
And  give  it  to  this  fellow. — Keep  it,  fellow : 
And  wear  it  for  an  honour  in  thy  cap. 
Till  I  do  challenge  it. — Give  him  the  crowns : — 
And,  captain,  you  must  needs  be  friends  with  him. 

Flu.  By  this  day  and  this  light,  the  fellow  has 
mettle  enough  in  his  pelly  : — Hold,  there  is  twelve 
pence  for  you,  and  I  pray  you  to  serve  Got,  and 
keep  you  out  of  prawls,  and  prabbles,  and  quarrels, 
and  dissensions,  and,  I  warrant  you,  it  is  the  petter 
for  you. 

Will.  I  will  none  of  your  money. 
Flu    It  is  with  a  goot  will;  I  can  tell  you,  it 
850 


will  serve  you  to  mend  your  shoes :  Come,  where- 
fore should  you  be  so  pashful ;  your  shoes  is  not 
so  goot :  't  is  a  goot  silling,  I  warrant  you,  or  I 
will  change  it. 

Enter  an  English  Herald. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  herald :  are  the  dead  number'd  ? 

Her.  Here  is  the  number  of  the  slaughter'd 
French.  [Delivers  a  Paper. 

K.  Hen.  What  prisoners  of  good  sort  are  taken, 
uncle  ? 

E^.  Charles  duke  of  Orleans,  nephew  to  the 
king; 
John  duke  of  Bourbon,  and  lord  Bouciqualt : 
Of  other  lords,  and  barons,  knights,  and  'squires, 
Full  fifteen  hundred,  besides  common  men. 

K.  Hen.  This  note  doth  tell  me  of  ten  thousand 
French, 
That  in  the  field  lie  slain :  of  princes,  in  this 

number, 
And  nobles  bearing  banners,  there  lie  dead 
One  hundred  twenty-six  :  added  to  these, 
Of  knights,  esquires,  and  gallant  gentlemen. 
Eight  thousand  and  four  hundred  ;  of  the  which, 
Five  hundred  were  but  yesterday  dubb'd  knights : 
So  that,  in  these  ten  thousand  they  have  lost, 
There  are  but  sixteen  hundred  mercenaries ; 
The    rest    are — princes,   barons,    lords,   knights, 

'squires. 
And  gentlemen  of  blood  and  quality. 
The  names  of  those  their  nobles  that  lie  dead, 
Charles  De-la-Bret,  high  constable  of  France  ; 
Jaques  of  Chatillon,  admiral  of  France  ; 
The  master  of  the  cross-bows,  lord  Rambures ; 
Great-master  of  France,  the  brave  sir  Guischard 

Dauphin  ; 
John  duke  of  Alenijon ;  Antony  duke  of  Brabant, 
The  brother  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy ; 
And  Edward  duke  of  Bar :  of  lusty  earls, 
Grandpre,  and  Roussi,  Fauconberg,  and  Foix, 
Beaumont,  and  Marie,  Vaudeniont,  and  Lestrale. 

Here  was  a  royal  fellowship  of  death  ! 

Where  is  the  number  of  our  English  dead  ? 

[Herald  presents  another  Paper. 
Edward  the  duke  of  York,  the  earl  of  Suffoik, 
Sir  Richard  Ketly,  Davy  Gam,  esquire  :''* 
None  else  of  name ;  and,  of  all  other  men, 
But  five  and  twenty.     O  God,  thy  arm  was  hera, 
And  not  to  us,  but  to  thy  arm  alone. 
Ascribe  we  all. — When,  without  stratagem. 
But  in  plain  shock,  and  even  play  of  battle. 
Was  ever  known  so  great  and  little  loss, 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE   I. 


On  one  part  and  on  the  other ! — Take  it,  God, 
For  it  is  only  thine ! 

ISxe.  'T  is  wonderful ! 

K.  Hen.    Ck)me,  go  we  in  procession  to  the 
village : 
And  be  it  death  proclaimed  through  our  host. 
To  boast  of  this,  or  take  that  praise  from  God, 
Which  is  his  only. 

Flu.  Is  it  not  lawful,  an  please  your  majesty,  to 
tell  how  many  is  killed  ? 


K.  Hen.  Yes,  captain ;  but  with  this  acknow- 
ledgment, 
That  God  fought  for  us. 

Flu.  Yes,  my  conscience,  he  did  us  great  goot. 

K.  Hen.  Do  we  all  holy  rites  ;"** 
Let  there  be  sung  Non  nobis,  and  Te  Deum. 
The  dead  with  charity  enclos'd  in  clay. 
We  '11  then  to  Calais ;  and  to  England  then  ; 
Where  ne'er  from  France  arriv'd  more  happy  men. 

\Fzeunt. 


ACT    Y. 


Enter  Chorus. 

CJior.  Vouchsafe  to  those  that  have  not  read 

the  story, 
That  I  may  prompt  them  :  and  of  such  as  have, 
I  humbly  pray  them  to  admit  the  excuse 
Of  time,  of  numbere,  and  due  course  of  things, 
Which  cannot  in  their  huge  and  proper  life 
Be  here  presented.     Now  we  bear  the  king 
Toward  Calais  :  grant  him  there  ;  there  seen. 
Heave  him  away  upon  your  winged  thoughts, 
Athwart  the  sea :  Behold,  the  English  beach 
Pales  in  the  flood  with  men,  with  wives,  and  boys, 
Whose  shouts  and  claps  out-voice  the  deep-mouth'd 

sea. 
Which,  like  a  mighty  whiffler  'fore  the  king. 
Seems  to  prepare  his  way  :  so  let  him  land  ; 
And,  solemnly,  see  him  set  on  to  London. 
So  swift  a  pace  hath  thought,  that  even  now 
You  may  imagine  him  upon  Blackheath : 
Where  that  his  lords  desire  him,  to  have  borne 
His  bruised  helmet,  and  his  bended  sword. 
Before  him,  through  the  city :  he  forbids  it. 
Being  free  from  vainness  and  self-glorious  pride ; 
Giving  full  trophy,  signal,  and  ostent. 
Quite  from  himself,  to  God.     But  now  behold. 
In  the  quick  forge  and  workinghouse  of  thought, 
How  London  doth  pour  out  her  citizens ! 
The  mayor,  and  all  his  brethren,  in  best  sort, — 
Like  to  the  senators  of  the  antique  Rome, 
With  the  plebeians  swarming  at  their  heels, — 
Go  forth,  and  fetch  their  conquering  Caesar  in  : 
As,  bv  a  lower  but  by  loving  likelihood, 


Were  now  the  general  of  our  gracious  empress" 
(As,  in  good  time,  he  may,)  from  Ireland  coming. 
Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  sword. 
How  many  would  the  peaceful  city  quit. 
To  welcome  him  ?  much  more,  and  much  more 

cause, 
Did   they  this   Harry.      Now  in  London   place 

him ; 
(As  yet  the  lamentation  of  the  French 
Invites  the  king  of  England's  stay  at  home : 
The  emperor  's  coming  in  behalf  of  France, 
To  order  peace  between  them  ;)  and  omit 
All  the  occurrences,  whatever  chanc'd. 
Till  Harry's  back-return  again  to  France ; 
There  must  we  bring  him ;  and  myself  have  play'd 
The  interim,  by  remembering  you — 't  is  past. 
Then  brook  abridgment ;  and  your  eyes  advance 
After    your    thoughts,    straight    back    again    to 

France.  [Exit. 

SCENE  I. — France.    An  English  Court  of  Guard. 
Enter  Fluellen  and  Gower. 

Gow.  Nay,  that  's  right ;  but  why  wear  you 
your  leek  to-day  ?  Saint  Davy's  day  is  past. 

Flu.  There  is  occasions  and  causes  why  and 
wherefore  in  all  things :  I  will  tell  you,  as  my 
friend,  captain  Gower :  The  rascally,  scald,  beg- 
garly, lousy,  pragging  knave,  Pistol, — which  you 
and  yourself,  and  all  the  'orld,  know  to  be  no 
petter  than  a  fellow  look  you  now,  of  no  merits, 
— he  is  come  to  me,  and  prings  me  pread  and  salt 
yesterday,  look  you,  and  bid  me  eat  my  leek :  il 

361 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


was  in  a  place  where  I  could  not  breed  no  con- 
tentions with  him ;  but  I  will  be  so  pold  as  to 
wear  it  in  my  cap  till  I  see  him  once  again,  and 
then  I  will  tell  him  a  little  piece  of  my  desires. 

Enter  Pistol. 

Gow.  Why,  here  he  comes,  swelling  like  a  tur- 
key-cock. 

Flu.  'T  is  no  matter  for  his  swellings,  nor  his 
turkey-cocks. — Got  pless  you,  ancient  Pistol !  you 
scurvy,  lousy  knave.  Got  pless  you  ! 

Pist.  Ha  !  art  thou  Bedlam  ?  dost  thou  thirst, 
base  Trojan, 
To  have  me  fold  up  Parca's  fatal  web  ? 
Hence  !  I  am  qualmish  at  the  smell  of  leek. 

Flu.  I  peseech  you  heartily,  scurvy  lousy  knave, 
at  my  desires,  and  my  requests,  and  my  petitions, 
to  eat,  look  you,  this  leek ;  because,  look  you,  you 
do  not  love  it,  nor  your  affections,  and  your  appe- 
tites, and  your  digestions,  does  not  agree  with  it, 
I  would  desire  you  to  eat  it. 

Pist.  Not  for  Cadwallader,  and  all  his  goats. 

Flu.  There  is  one  goat  for  you.  [^Strikes  him^ 
Will  you  be  so  goot,  scald  knave,  as  eat  it  ? 

Pist.  Base  Trojan,  thou  shalt  die. 

Flu.  You  say  very  true,  scald  knave,  when 
Got's  will  is  :  I  will  desire  you  to  live  in  the 
mean  time,  and  eat  your  victuals  ;  come,  there  is 
sauce  for  it.  [^Striking  him  again.]  You  called 
me  yesterday,  mountain-squire ;  but  I  will  make 
you  to-day  a  squire  of  low  degree.  I  pray  you, 
fall  to  :  if  you  can  mock  a  leek,  you  can  eat  a 
leek. 

Gow.  Enough,  captain ;  you  have  astonish'd  him. 

Flu.  I  say,  I  will  make  him  eat  some  part  of 
my  leek,  or  I  will  peat  his  pate  four  days : — Pite, 
I  pray  you  ;  it  is  goot  for  your  green  wound,  and 
your  ploody  coxcomb. 

Pist.  Must  I  bite  ? 

Flu.  Yes,  certainly  ;  and  out  of  doubt,  and  out 
of  questions  too,  and  ambiguities. 

Pist.  By  this  leek,  I  will  most  horribly  revenge; 
I  eat,  and  eke  I  swear — 

Flu.  Eat,  I  pray  you :  Will  you  have  some 
more  sauce  to  your  leek  ?  there  is  not  enough  leek 
to  swear  by. 

Pist.  Quiet  thy  cudgel ;  thou  dost  see,  I  eat. 

Flu.  Much  goot  do  you,  scald  knave,  heartily. 
Nay,  'pray  you,  throw  none  away  ;  the  skin  is 
goot  for  your  proken  coxcomb.  When  you  take 
occasions  to  see  leeks  hereafter,  I  pray  you,  mock 
at  them ;  that  is  all. 
8E2 


Pist.  Good. 

Flu.  Ay,  leeks  is  goot : — Hold  you,  there  is  a 
groat  to  heal  your  pate. 

Pist.  Me  a  groat ! 

Flu.  Yes,  verily,  and  in  truth,  you  shall  take 
it ;  or  I  have  another  leek  in  my  pocket,  which 
you  shall  eat. 

Pist.  I  take  thy  groat,  in  earnest  of  revenge. 

Flu.  If  I  owe  you  any  thing,  I  will  pay  you  in 
cudgels  ;  you  shall  be  a  woodmonger,  and  buy 
nothing  of  me  but  cudgels.  God  be  wi'  you,  and 
keep  you,  and  heal  your  pate.  \Fxit. 

Pist.  All  hell  shall  stir  for  this. 

Gow.  Go,  go ;  you  are  a  counterfeit  cowardly 
knave.  Will  you  mock  at  an  ancient  tradition, — 
begun  upon  an  honourable  respect,  and  worn  as  a 
memorable  trophy  of  predeceased  valour, — and 
dare  not  avouch  in  your  deeds  any  of  your  words  ? 
I  have  seen  you  gleeking  and  galling  at  this  gen- 
tleman twice  or  thrice.  You  thought,  because  he 
could  not  speak  English  in  the  native  garb,  he 
could  not  therefore  handle  an  English  cudgel : 
you  find  it  otherwise ;  and,  henceforth,  let  a  Welsh 
correction  teach  you  a  good  English  condition. 
Fare  ye  well.  \_Exit. 

Pist.  Doth  fortune  play  the  huswife  with  me 
now? 
News  have  I,  that  my  Nell  is  dead  i'  the  spital 
Of  malady  of  France  ; 
And  there  my  rendezvous  is  quite  cut  off. 
Old  I  do  wax ;  and  from  my  weary  limbs 
Honour  is  cudgell'd.     Well,  bawd  will  I  turn, 
And  something  lean  to  cutpurse  of  quick  hand. 
To  England  will  I  steal,  and  there  I  '11  steal : 
And  patches  will  I  get  unto  these  scars, 
And  swear,  I  got  them  in  the  Gallia  wars.    \Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Troyes  in  Champagne.     An  A2)art- 
ment  in  the  French  King's  Palace.     ■ 

Enter,  at  one  Door,  King  Henry,  Bedford, 
Gloster,  Exeter,  Warwick,  Wkstmoreland, 
and  other  Lords  ;  at  another,  the  French  King, 
Queen  Isabel,  the  Princess  Katharine,  Lords. 
Ladies,  dtc,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and  hit 
Train. 

K.  Hen.  Peace  to  this  meeting,  wherefore  wfi 

are  net ! 
Unto  our  brother  France, — and  to  our  sister, 
Health   and   fair  time  of  day : — joy  and  good 

wishes 
To  our  most  fair  and  princeh  cousin  Katharine , 


I  j 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    II. 


And  (as  a  branch  and  member  of  this  royalty, 
By  whom  this  great  assembly  is  contriv'd,) 
We  do  salute  you,  duke  of  Burgundy  : — 
And,  princes  French,  and  peers,  health  to  you  all  1 

Fr.  King.  Right  joyous  are  we  to  behold  your 
face. 
Most  worthy  brother  England  ;  fairly  met : — 
So  are  you,  princes  English,  every  one. 

Q.  Isa.  So  happy  be  the  issue,  brother  England, 
Of  this  good  day,  and  of  this  gracious  meeting. 
As  we  are  now  glad  to  behold  your  eyes  ; 
Your  eyes,  which  hitherto  have  borne  in  them 
Against  the  French,  that  met  them  in  their  bent. 
The  fatal  balls  of  murdering  basilisks  : 
The  venom  of  such  looks,  we  fairly  hope. 
Have  lost  their  quality ;  and  that  this  day 
Shall  change  all  griefs,  and  quarrels,  into  love. 

IT.  Hen.  To  cry  amen  to  that,  thus  we  appear. 

Q.  Isa.  You  English  princes  all,  I  do  salute  you. 

Bur.  My  duty  to  you  both,  on  equal  love, 
Great  kitigs  of  France  and  England  !    That  I  have 

labour'd 
With    all    my  wits,   my  pains,    and   strong   en- 
deavours. 
To  bring  your  most  imperial  majesties 
[Into  this  bar  and  royal  interview. 
Your  mightiness  on  both  parts  best  can  witness. 
Since  then  my  oflSce  hath  so  far  prevail'd, 
That,  face  to  face,  and  royal  eye  to  eye, 
You  have  congreeted ;  let  it  not  disgrace  me. 
If  I  demand,  before  this  royal  view, 
What  rub,  or  what  impediment,  there  is. 
Why  that  the  naked,  poor,  and  mangled  peace. 
Dear  nurse  of  arts,  plenties,  and  joyful  births. 
Should  not,  in  this  best  garden  of  the  world. 
Our  fertile  France,  put  up  her  lovely  visage  ? 
Alas  !  she  hath  from  France  too  long  been  chas'd ; 
And  all  her  husbandry  doth  lie  on  heaps. 
Corrupting  in  its  own  fertility. 
Her  vine,  the  merry  cheerer  of  the  heart, 
Unpruned  dies  :  her  hedges  even-pleached, — 
Like  prisoners  wildly  over-grown  with  hair. 
Put  forth  disorder'd  twigs  :  her  fallow  leas 
The  darnel,  hemlock,  and  rank  fumitory, 
Doth  root  upon ;  while  that  the  coulter  rusts. 
That  should  deracinate  such  savagery  : 
The  even  mead,  that  erst  brought  sweetly  forth 
The  freckled  cowslip,  burnet,  and  green  clover, 
Wanting  the  scythe,  all  uncorrected,  rank. 
Conceives  by  idleness ;  and  nothing  teems, 
But  hateful  docks,  rough  thistles,  kecksies.  burs, 
Losing  both  beauty  and  utility. 


And  as  our  vineyards,  fallows,  meads,  and  hedges, 
Defective  in  their  natures,  grow  to  wildnes* ; 
Even  so  our  houses,  and  ourselves,  and  children 
Have  lost,  or  do  not  learn,  for  want  of  time. 
The  sciences  that  should  become  our  country ; 
But  grow,  like  savages, — as  soldiers  will. 
That  nothing  do  but  meditate  on  blood, — 
To  swearing,  and  stern  looks,  diffus'd  attire, 
And  every  thing  that  seems  unnatural. 
Which  to  reduce  into  our  former  favour. 
You  are  assembled  :  and  my  speech  entreats, 
That  I  may  know  the  let,  why  gentle  peace 
Should  not  expel  these  inconveniences. 
And  bless  us  with  her  former  qualities. 

K.  Hen.  If,  duke  of  Burgundy,  you  would  tha 
peace. 
Whose  want  gives  growth  to  the  imperfections 
Which  you  have  cited,  you  must  buy  that  peac« 
With  full  accord  to  all  our  just  demands ; 
Whose  tenors  and  particular  eflfects 
You  have,  enschedul'd  briefly,  in  your  hands. 

Bur.  The  king  hath  heard  them ;  to  the  which: 
as  yet. 
There  is  no  answer  made. 

K.  Hen.  Well  then,  the  peace, 

Which  you  before  so  urg'd,  lies  in  his  answer. 

Fr.  King.  I  have  but  with  a  cursorary  eye 
O'er-glanc'd  the  articles  :  pleaseth  your  grace 
To  appoint  some  of  your  council  presently 
To  sit  with  us  once  more,  with  better  heed 
To  re-survey  them,  we  will,  suddenly. 
Pass  or  accept,  and  peremptory  answer. 

K.  Hen.  Brother,  we  shall. — Go,  uncle  Exeter, — 
And  brother  Clarence, — and  you,  brother  Glos- 

ter, — 
Warwick, — and  Huntingdon, — go  with  the  king : 
And  take  with  you  fre«  power,  to  ratify, 
Augment,  or  alter,  as  your  wisdoms  best 
Shall  see  advantageable  for  our  dignity, 
Any  thing  in,  or  out  of,  our  demands ; 
And  we'll  consign  thereto. — Will  you,  fair  sister, 
Go  with  the  princes,  or  stay  here  with  us  ? 

Q.  Isa.  Our  gracious  brother,  I  will  go  with 
them ; 
Haply,  a  woman's  voice  may  do  some  good, 
When  articles,  too  nicely  urg'd,  be  stood  on. 

K.  Hen.  Yet  leave  our  cousin  Katharine  here 
with  us ; 
She  is  our  capital  demand,  compris  d 
Within  the  fore-rank  of  our  articles. 

Q.  Isa.  She  hath  good  leave. 
\Fxeunt  all  but  Hen.,  Kath.,  and  her  gentlewoman 

858 


ACT    V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


K.  Hen.  Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair ! 

Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms, 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear, 
And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart  ? 

Kath.  Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me  ;  I  can- 
not speak  your  England, 

K.  Hen.  O  fair  Katharine,  if  you  will  love  me 
soundly  with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be  glad  to 
hear  you  confess  it  brokenly  with  your  English 
tongue.     Do  you  like  me,  Kate  ? 

Kath.  Pardonnez  may,  I  cannot  tell  vat  is — 
like  me. 

K.  Hen.  An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate ;  and  you 
are  like  an  angel. 

Kath.  Que  dit-il  ?  que  je  suis  semblable  a  les 
anges  ? 

Alice.  Ouy,  vrayment^  {sauf  vostre  grace)  ainsi 
dit  il. 

K.  Hen.  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine ;  and  I  must 
not  blush  to  affirm  it. 

Kath.  0  hon  Dieu !  les  langues  des  hommes 
sont  plaines  des  tromperies. 

K.  Hen.  What  says  she,  fair  one?  that  the 
tongues  of  men  are  full  of  deceits  ? 

Alice.  Ouy ;  dat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  be 
full  of  deceits  :  dat  is  de  princess. 

K.  Hen.  The  princess  is  the  better  English- 
woman, r  faith,  Kate,  my  wooing  is  fit  for  thy 
understanding :  I  am  glad,  thou  can'st  speak  no 
better  English ;  for,  if  thou  couldst,  thou  wouldst 
find  me  such  a  plain  king,  that  thou  would'st 
think,  I  had  sold  my  farm  to  buy  my  crown.  I 
know  no  ways  to  mince  it  in  love,  but  directly  to 
say — I  love  you  :  then,  if  you  urge  me  further 
than  to  say — Do  you  in  faith  ?  I  wear  out  my 
suit.  Give  me  your  answer;  i'  faith,  do;  and  so 
clap  hands  and  a  bargain  :  How  say  you,  lady? 

Kath.  Sauf  vostre  honneur,  me  understand 
well. 

K.  Hen.  Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to  verses, 
or  to  dance  for  your  sake,  Kate,  why  you  undid 
me :  for  the  one,  I  have  neither  words  nor  meas- 
ure ;  and  for  the  other,  I  have  no  strength  in 
Pleasure,  yet  a  reasonable  measure  in  strength. 
[f  I  could  win  a  lady  at  leap-frog,  or  by  vaulting 
into  my  saddle  with  my  armour  on  my  back, 
under  the  correction  of  bragg-ing  be  it  spoken,  I 
should  quickly  leap  into  a  wife.  Or,  if  I  might 
buffet  for  my  love,  or  bound  my  horse  for  her  fa- 
vours, I  could  lay  on  like  a  butcher,  and  sit  like 
a  jack-an-apes,  never  off :  but,  before  God,  I  can- 
not look  greenly,  nor  gasp  out  my  eloquence,  nor 

8A4 


I  have  no  cunning  in  protestation  ;  only  down- 
right oaths,  which  I  never  use  till  urged,  nor  never 
break  for  urging.  If  thou  canst  love  a  fellow  of 
this  temper,  Kate,  whose  face  is  not  worth  sun- 
burning,  that  never  looks  in  his  glass  for  love  of 
any  thing  he  sees  there,  let  thine  eye  by  thy  cook. 
I  speak  to  thee  plain  soldier  :  If  thou  canst  love 
me  for  this,  take  me  :  if  not,  to  say  to  thee — that 
I  shall  die,  is  true  ;  but — for  thy  love,  by  the 
Lord,  no  ;  yet  I  love  thee  too.  And  while  thou 
livest,  dear  Kate,  take  a  fellow  of  plain  and  un- 
coined constancy;  for  he  perforce  must  do  thee 
right,  because  he  hath  not  the  gift  to  woo  in 
other  places  :  for  these  fellows  of  infinite  tongue, 
that  can  rhyme  themselves  into  ladies'  favours, — 
they  do  always  reason  themselves  out  again. 
What !  a  speaker  is  but  a  prater :  a  rhyme  is  but 
a  b^illad.  A  good  leg  will  fall ;  a  straight  back 
will  stoop ;  a  black  beard  will  turn  white ;  a  curled 
pate  will  grow  bald  ;  a  fair  face  will  wither  ;  a  full 
eye  will  wax  hollow  :  but  a  good  heart,  Kate,  is 
the  sun  and  moon ;  or,  rather  the  sun,  and  not 
the  moon;  for  it  shines  bright,  and  never  changes, 
but  keeps  his  course  truly.  If  thou  would  have 
such  a  one,  take  me :  And  take  me,  take  a  soldier ; 
take  a  soldier,  take  a  king  :  And  what  sayest  thou 
then  to  my  love  ?  speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly,  I  pray 
thee. 

Kath.  Is  it  possible  dat  I  should  love  de  enemy 
of  France  ? 

K.  Hen.  No ;  it  is  not  possible,  you  should  love 
the  enemy  of  France,  Kate ;  but,  in  loving  me, 
you  should  love  the  friend  of  France ;  for  I  love 
France  so  well,  that  I  will  not  part  with  a  village 
of  it ;  I  will  have  it  all  mine :  and,  Kate,  wheD 
France  is  mine,  ai:d  I  am  yours,  then  yours  ip 
France,  and  you  are  tnine. 

Kath.  I  cannot  toll  vat  is  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No,  Kaw  {  I  will  tell  thee  in  French  •, 
which,  I  am  sure,  will  hang  upon  my  tongue  like 
a  new-married  wife  aboui  her  husband's  neck, 
hardly  to  be  shook  off.  Qaand  fay  la  possession 
de  France,  et  quand  vous  avez  l"-  possession  de 
moi,  (let  me  see,  what  then  ?  3aini  D^npis  be  my 
speed  1) — done  vostre  est  France,  ei  vcus  estes 
mienne.  It  is  as  easy  for  me,  Kaie,  to  conquei 
the  kingdom,  as  to  speak  so  much  more  French  : 
I  shall  never  move  thee  in  French,  unless  it  be  to 
laugh  at  me. 

Kath.  Sauf  vostre  honneur,  le  Frangois  que 
vous  parlez,  est  meilleur  q'te  VAnglois  lequel  je 
parle. 


ACT    V, 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFfH. 


SCENE   n. 


K.  Hen.  No,  'faith,  is  't  not,  Kate :  but  thy 
"peaking  of  ray  tongue,  and  I  thine,  most  truly 
falsely,  must  needs  be  granted  to  be  much  at  one. 
But,  Kate,  dost  thou  understand  thus  much  Eng- 
lish ?     Canst  thou  love  me  ? 

Kath.  I  cannot  tell. 

K.  Hen.  Can  any  of  your  neighbours  tell,  Kate? 
1  '11  ask  them.  Con.-^,  I  know,  thou  lovest  me : 
and  at  night  when  you  come  into  your  closet, 
you  '11  question  this  gentlewoman  about  me ;  and 
I  know,  Kate,  you  will,  to  her,  dispraise  those  parts 
in  me,  that  you  love  with  your  heart :  but,  good 
Kate,  mock  me  mercifully  the  rather,  gentle 
princess,  because  I  love  thee  c\  aelly.  If  ever  thou 
be'st  mine,  Kate,  (as  I  have  a  saving  faith  with- 
in me,  tells  me, — thou  shalt,)  I  get  thee  with 
scambling,  and  thou  must  therefore  needs  prove 
a  good  soldier-breeder :  Shall  not  thou  and  I,  be- 
tween Saint  Dennis  and  Saint  George,  compound 
a  boy,  half  French,  half  English,  that  shall  go  to 
Constantinople,  and  take  the  Turk  by  the  beard? 
shall  we  not  ?  what  sayest  thou,  my  fair  flower- 
de-luce  ? 

Kath.  I  do  not  know  dat. 

K.  Hen.  No ;  't  is  hereafter  to  know,  but  now 
to  promise  :  do  but  now  promise,  Kate,  you  will 
endeavour  for  your  French  part  of  such  a  boy  ; 
and,  for  my  English  moiety,  take  the  word  of  a 
king  and  a  bachelor.  How  answer  you,  la  plus 
belle  Katharine  du  monde,  mon  ires  chere  et 
divine  deesse  ? 

Kath.  Your  majesty  \vQfausse  French  enough 
to  deceive  the  most  sage  damoiselle  dat  is  en 
France. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  fye  upon  my  false  French  !  By 
mine  honour,  in  true  English,  I  love  thee,  Kate : 
by  which  honour  I  dare  not  swear,  thou  lovest 
me,  yet  my  blood  begins  to  flatter  me  that  thou 
dost,  notwithstanding  the  poor  and  untempering 
effect  of  ray  visage.  Now  beshrew  my  father's 
ambition  !  he  was  thinking  of  civil  wars  when  he 
got  me  ;  therefore  was  I  created  with  a  stubborn 
outside,  with  an  aspect  of  iron,  that,  when  I  come 
to  woo  ladies,  I  fright  them.  But,  in  faith,  Kate, 
the  elder  I  wax,  the  better  I  shall  appear:  my 
comfort  is,  that  old  age,  that  ill  layer  up  of  beautv, 
can  do  no  more  spoil  upon  my  face :  thou  hast 
me,  if  thou  hast  me,  at  the  worst ;  and  thou  shalt 
wear  me,  if  thou  wear  me,  better  and  better  :  And 
therefore  tell  me,  most  fair  Katharine,  will  you 
have  me?  Put  off  your  maiden  blushes;  avouch 
the  thoughts  of  your  heart  with  the  looks  of  an 


empress ;  take  me  by  the  hand,  and  say — Harrv 
of  England,  I  am  thine :  which  word  thou  shalt 
no  sooner  bless  mine  ear  withal,  but  I  will  tell 
thee  aloud — England  is  thine,  Ireland  is  thine, 
France  is  thine,  and  Henry  Plantagenet  is  thine  ; 
■who,  though  I  speak  it  before  his  face,  if  he  bo 
not  fellow  with  the  best  king,  thou  shalt  find  tho 
best  king  of  good  fellows.  Come,  your  answer  in 
broken  music ;  for  thy  voice  is  music,  and  thy 
English  broken  :  therefore,  queen  of  all,  Katharine, 
break  thy  mind  to  me  in  broken  English,  Wilt 
thou  have  me  ? 

Kath.  Dat  is,  as  it  shall  please  de  roy  mon  pere. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  it  will  please  him  well,  Kate ;  it 
shall  please  him,  Kate. 

Kath.  Den  it  shall  also  content  me. 

K.  Hen.  Upon  that  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and 
I  call  you — my  queen. 

Kath.  Laissez,  mon  seigneur^  laissez,  laissez : 
ma  foy,  je  ne  veux  point  que  vous  abbaissez  vostre 
grandeur, en  haisant  la  main  d'une  vostre  indigv.e 
serviteure ;  excusez  moy,  je  vous  supjAie,  mon  trea 
23uissant  seigneur. 

K.  Hen.  Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

Kath.  Les  dames  et  damoiselles,  pour  estre  bat- 
sees  devant  lour  nopces,  il  n'est  pas  le  coiitume  dc 
France. 

K.  Hen.  Madam  my  interpreter,  what  says 
she? 

Alice.  Dat  it  is  not  be  de  fashion  pour  les  la- 
dies of  France, — I  cannot  tell  what  is,  baiser,  en 
English. 

K.  Hen.  To  kiss. 

Alice.  Your  majesty  entendre  better  que  moy. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  not  the  fashion  for  the  maids  in 
France  to  kiss  before  they  are  married,  would  she 
say? 

Alice.    Oui,  vrayment. 

K.  Hen.  0,  Kate,  nice  customs  curt'sy  to  great 
kings.  Dear  Kate,  you  and  I  cannot  be  confined 
within  the  weak  list  of  a  country's  fashion :  we 
are  the  makers  of  manners,  Kate  ;  and  the  liberty 
that  follows  our  places,  stops  the  mouths  of  all 
find-faults ;  as  I  will  do  yours,  for  upholding  tho 
nice  feshion  of  your  country,  in  denying  me  a  kiss: 
therefore,  patiently,  and  yielding.  [Kissing  her^ 
You  have  witchcraft  in  your  lips,  Kate :  there  is 
more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them,  than 
in  the  tongues  of  the  French  council ;  and  they 
should  sooner  persuade  Harry  of  England,  than 
a  general  petition  of  monarchs.  Here  comes  yom 
father. 

U(S6 


ACT    V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


SCENE    n. 


Enter  the  French  King  and  Queen,  Burgundy, 
Bedford,  Gloster,  Exetre,  Westmoreland, 
and  other  Fiench  and  English  Lords. 

Bur.  God  save  your  majesty!  my  royal  cousin, 
teach  you  our  princess  English  ? 

K.  Hen.  I  would  have  her  learn,  my  fair  cou- 
sin, how  perfectly  I  love  her ;  and  that  is  good  Eng- 
lish. 

Bur.  Is  she  not  apt  ? 

K.  Hen.  Our  tongue  is  rough,  coz ;  and  my  con- 
dition is  not  smooth  ;  so  that,  having  neither  the 
voice  nor  the  heart  of  flattery  about  me,  I  cannot 
so  conjure  up  the  spirit  of  love  in  her,  that  he  will 
appear  in  his  true  likeness. 

Bur.  Pardon  the  frankness  of  my  mirth,  if  I 
answer  you  for  that.  If  you  would  conjurS  in  her 
you  must  make  a  circle :  if  conjure  up  love  in  her 
in  his  true  likeness,  he  must  appear  naked,  and 
blind  :  Can  you  blame  her  then,  being  a  maid  yet 
rosed  over  with  the  virgin  crimson  of  modesty,  if 
she  deny  the  appearance  of  a  naked  blind  boy  in 
her  naked  seeing  self  ?  It  were,  my  lord,  a  hard 
condition  for  a  maid  to  consign  to. 

K.  Hen.  Yet  they  do  wink,  and  yield ;  as  love 
IS  blind,  and  enforces. 

Bur.  They  are  then  excused,  my  lord,  when 
they  see  not  what  they  do. 

K.  Hen.  Then,  good  my  lord,  teach  your  oousin 
to  consent  to  winking. 

Bur.  I  will  wink  on  her  to  consent,  my  lord,  if 
yeu  will  teach  her  to  know  my  meaning:  for 
maids,  well  summered  and  warm  kept,  are  like  flies 
at  Bartholomew-tide,  blind,  though  they  have 
their  eyes ;  and  then  they  will  endure  handling, 
which  before  would  not  abide  looking  on. 

K.  Hen.  This  moral  ties  me  over  to  time,  and 
a  hot  summer ;  and  so  I  will  catch  the  fly,  your 
cousin,  in  the  latter  end,  and  she  must  be  Wind  too. 

Bur.  As  love  is,  my  lord,  before  it  loves. 

K.  Hen.  It  is  so :  and  you  may,  some  of  you, 
thank  love  for  my  blindness ;  who  cannot  see 
many  a  fair  French  city,  for  one  fair  French  maid 
that  stands  in  my  way. 

Fr.  King.  Yes,  my  lord,  you  see  them  perspec- 
tively,  the  cities  turned  into  a  maid ;  for  they  are 
all  girdled  with  maider  walls,  that  war  hath  never 
entered. 

K.  Hen.  Shall  Kate  "be  my  wife  ? 

Fr.  King.  So  please  you. 

K.  Hen.  I  am  content ;  so  the  maiden  cities  you 
talk  of,  may  wait  on  her :  so  the  maid  that  stood 
866 


in  the  way  of  my  wish,  shall  show  me  the  way  tc 
my  will. 

Fr.  King.  We  have  consented  to  all  terms  ol 
reason. 

K.  Hen.  Is 't  so,  my  lords  of  England  ? 

West.  The  king  hath  granted  every  article  • 
His  daughter,  first ;  and  then,  in  sequel,  all. 
According  to  their  firm  proposed  natures.  i 

Fxe.  Only,  he  hath  not  yet  subscribed  this : — 
Where  your  majesty  demands, — That  the  king  ol 
France,  having  any  occasion  to  write  formatter  of 
grant,  shall  name  your  highness  in  this  form,  and 
with  this  addition,  in  French, — Notre  tres  cher  filz 
Henry  roy  d^Angleterre,  heretier  de  France ;  and 
thus  in  Latin, — Prceclarissimus  filius  noster  Hen- 
ricus,  rex  Anglice,  et  hceres  Francice. 

Fr.  King.  Nor  this  I  have  not,  brother,  so  denied. 
But  your  request  shall  make  me  let  it  pass. 

K.  Hen.  I  pray  you  then,  in  love  and  dear 
alliance, 
Let  that  one  article  rank  with  the  rest : 
And,  thereupon,  give  me  your  daughter. 

Fr.  King.  Take  her,  fair  son ;  and    from    her 
blood  raise  up 
Issue  to  me  :  that  the  contending  kingdoms 
Of  France  and  England,  whose  very  shores  look 

pale 
With  envy  of  each  other's  happiness. 
May  cease  their  hatred  ;  and  this  dear  conjunction 
Plant  neighbourhood  and  christian-like  accord 
In  their  sweet  bosoms,  that  never  war  advance 
His  bleeding  sword  'twixt  England  and  fair  France. 

All.  Amen ! 

K.  Hen.  Now  welcome,  Kate : — and  bear  me 
witness  all. 
That  here  I  kiss  her  as  my  sovereign  queen. 

[Flourish. 

Q.  Isa.  God,  the  best  maker  of  all  marriages. 
Combine  your  hearts  in  one,  your  realms  in  one ! 
As  man  and  wife,  being  two,  are  one  in  love. 
So  be  there  'twixt  your  kingdoms  such  a  spousal. 
That  never  may  ill  office,  or  fell  jealousy. 
Which  troubles  oft  the  bed  of  blessed  marriage, 
Thrust  in  between  the  paction  of  these  kingdoms, 
To  make  divorce  of  their  incorporate  league  ; 
That  Enghsh  may  as  French,  French  Englishmen, 
Receive  each  other ! — God  speak  this  amen  ! 

All.  Amen  ! 

K.  Hen.  Prepare  we  for    our    marriage : — on 
which  day. 
My  lord  of  Burgundy,  we  '11  take  your  oath, 
And  all  the  peers',  for  surety  of  our  leagues. — 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


RCBNK    n. 


Then  shall  I  swear  to  Kate,  and  you  to  me ; 
And  may  your  oaths  well  kept  and  prosp'rous  be  ! 

\Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Thus  far,  with  rough,  and  all  unable  pen, 
Our  bending  author  hath  pursued  the  story ; 

In  little  room  confining  mighty  men. 

Mangling  by  starts  the  full  course  of  their  glory. 

Small  time,  but,  in  that  small,  most  greatly  liv'd 

108 


This  star  of  England  :  fortune  made  his  sword 
By  which  the  world's  best  garden  he  achiev'd. 

And  of  it  left  his  son  imperial  lord. 
Henry  the  Sixth,  in  infant  bands  crown'd  king 

Of  France  and  England,  did  this  king  succeed  ; 
Whose  state  so  many  had  the  managing. 

That  they  lost  France,  and  made  his  England 
bleed : 
Which  oft  our  stage  hath  shown ;  and,  for  their  sake, 
In  your  fair  minds  let  this  acceptance  take.  [Exit 

Sfl 


NOTES  TO  KIICt  HEIRY  THE  FIFTH. 


»  On  yov/t'  imaginary  forces  worh. 
Imaginary  is  used  for  imaginative. 

2  My  lord,  I  HI  tell  you, — thai  self  bill  is  urg^d. 

The  archbishop  refers  to  a  bill  which  was  proposed  by 
tlie  commons,  when  applied  to  by  Henry  IV.,  to  grant 
pupplies.  It  enacted  that  the  king  should  be  authorized 
to  seize  all  the  temporalities  of  the  church,  and  employ 
them  as  a  perpetual  fund  for  the  service  of  the  state. 
They  estimated  the  ecclesiastical  revenues  at  485,000  marks 
a-year,  and  as  being  derived  from  18,400  ploughs  of  laud. 
They  proposed  to  divide  this  property  among  fifteen  new 
earls,  1,500  knights,  6,000  esquires,  and  100  hospitals ; 
which  still  left  a  surplus  of  £20,000  a-year,  which  the  king 
might  apply  to  his  own  purposes.  The  clerical  functions 
they  said  would  be  better  performed  by  15,000  parish 
(>riests  with  a  salary  each  of  seven  marks  a-year.  The 
clergy  were  greatly  alarmed  at  this  proposed  aggression, 
and  made  an  appeal  to  the  king,  who  thought  it  prudent 
to  discountenance  the  scheme,  and  repre'iend  the  pro- 
jectors of  it. 

«  Oregcive,  i.  e.,  constantly  Increasing. 

<  They  know  your  grace  Jiath  cause,  and  means,  and  mighty 
So  hath  your  highness. 

Tlie  meaning  of  this  passage  is  rendered  clear  by  placing 
itn  emphasis  on  the  last  hath;  i.  e.,  'your  highness  hath 
ii'.deed  what  they  think  and  knoT  you  to  have.' 

*  They  of  those  marches, 
Tiie   marches  are  the  borders,  the  limits  or  confines. 
Hence  the  Lords  Marchers,  i.  e.,  the  lords  presidents  of  the 
inarches. 

«  Doth  Tceep  in  one  concent. 
Consent  is  connected  harmony  in  general,  and  not  con- 
uned  to  any  specific  consonance. 

That  'ill  the  courts  of  France  will  be   disturbed  with 
chaces, 

A  oluice  at  tennis  is  that  spot  where  a  ball  falls,  beyond 
.v'liicli  the  adversary  must  strike  his  ball  to  gain  a  point 
or  chace.  The  king  probably  quibbles  on  the  word,  its 
secondary  meaning  being  that  he  will  play  such  a  game 
in  Frimco  that  the  whole  country  will  be  disturbed  by  the 
Qight  and  chasing  of  armies. 
868 


*  We  nei)er  valued  this  poor  seat  of  England, 

The  seat  is  the  throne ;  we  never,  says  the  prince,  as- 
pired to  royal  state  and  honours,  and  therefore  lived  from 
the  court  in  "  barbarous  license  ;"  but  since  this  honour 
has  fallen  on  me,  I  will  act  like  a  king. 

"  Hath  turn'd  his  balls  to  gunr-stones. 

When  ordnance  was  first  used,  they  discharged  balls> 
not  of  iron,  but  of  stone.  So  Holinshed — "  About  seaven 
of  the  clocke  marched  forward  the  light  pieces  of  ordnance, 
with  ston^  and  powder." 

1"  While  we  force  a  play. 
To  force  a  play,  is  to  produce  a  play  by  bringing  many 
incidents  into  a  narrow  compass.    Hea  ing  events  closely 
together. 

"  We ''II  not  offend  one  stomach. 

You  shall  pass  the  sea  in  imagination  only,  therefore 
your  stomachs  will  be  undisturbed  by  the  qualms  of  sea- 
sickness. 

"  We  HI  be  all  three  sworn  brothers  to  France. 

That  is,  in  France, 
nion  as  brothers. 


In  France  they  will  live  in  commu- 


"  Will  you  shog  of? 
A  cant  phrase,  meaning  will  you  go.    In  Beaumont  ana 
Fletcher's  Coxcomb — 

Come,  pr'ythee,  let  us  shxig  off. 

'*  lam  not  Barbason  ;  you  cannot  conjure  me. 

Barbason  is  the  name  of  a  demon  mentioned  in  Ths 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  See  note  110  to  that  play.  The 
high-sounding  nonsense  of  Pistol's  speech  reminds  Nym 
of  the  obscure  and  extravagant  language  of  conjurers. 

'»  And  on  his  more  advice  we  pardon  him. 
More  advice  is  better  reflection  on  his  return  to  reason. 

>'  Who  are  the  late  commissioners  F 

This  is  a  loose  sentence,  but  the  sequel  shows  the  moan- 
ing to  be,  who  are  the  persons  lately  appointed  commis- 
sioners. 

"  He  might  return  to  vasty  Tartar. 

That  is,  Tartarus,  the  fabled  place  of  future  puui:;l;morit 


,  NOTES  TO  KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 


"  M  parted  even  just  between  twelve  and  one,  e^en  at  turning 
o'  the  tide. 

It  is  a  very  old  superstition,  and  is  at  this  day  com- 
mon iu  some  seaport  towus  and  villages  near  the  coast, 
that  dying  people  usually  breathe  their  last  at  the  ebb  of 
the  tide. 

»  But  then  he  was  rheumatic. 

Shakespeare  sometimes  uses  this  word  for  peevish  or 
snlenetic,  but  Mrs.  Quickley  doubtless  means  lunatic. 

so  Which  of  a  weak  and  niggardly  projection. 

We  should,  I  think,  read  oft  fpr  of;  the  sense  would 
then  be  clear.    Projection  is  used  as  preparation. 

"'  The  rivage,  i,  e.,  the  bank  or  shore. 

"  Overhand  and  jutty  his  confotmded  haae. 

To  d'erhind  and  jutty  is  to  overhang  and  jut  out  from  ; 
the  rock  is  described  as  projecting  into  the  sea ;  his  con- 
founded  ba«e  is  his  worn  or  wasted  base. 

^  I  have  not  a  case  of  lives. 

That  is,  a  pair  of  lives ;  as  we  say  a  case  of  pistols,  a 
i>race  or  pair. 

M  Ikne.c,  by  that  piece  of  service,  the  men  would  carry  coals. 
That  is,  put  up  with  insults.    See  note  2,  to  Borneo 
and  Julie' 

"  Is  dighi  nimself  four  yards  under  the  counter- mines. 

Fluellen  means  that  the  enemy  had  dug  counter-mines 
four  yards  under  the  mines. 

2'  In  that  nook-shotten  isle  of  Albion. 
A  nook-shotten  country  is  a  country  that  shoots  out  pro- 
montories and  necks  of  land  into  the  sea.    The  coast-line 
of  Eng'and  is  very  irregular. 

"  But  keeps  thepridge  most  valiantly. 
In  Henry's  return  to  Calais,  after  he  had  passed  the 
river  Some,  the  French  endeavoured  to  intercept  him  by 
attempting  to  break  down  the  only  bridge  there  was  over 
the  deep  and  rapid  river  of  Ternois.  But  Henry  having 
notice  of  their  design,  sent  a  body  of  troops  in  advance, 
who  drove  away  the  French,  and  preserved  the  bridge  till 
the  whole  of  the  army  arrived  and  passed  over  it. 

^»  For  he  hath  stolen  apix,  and  hanged  must  'a  be. 

A  pix  is  a  small  chest  in  which  the  consecrated  host 
was  kept.  Hall  says — "  A  foolish  soldier  stole  a  pix  out 
of  a  church,  and  unreverently  did  eat  the  holy  hostes 
within  the  same  contained." 

29  And  what  a  beard  of  the  generaVs  cut. 
Our  ancestors  were  very  particular  respecting  the  fash- 
ion of  their  beards,  and  a  certain  cut  was  appropriated  to 
the  soldier,  the  bishop,  the  judge,  &c.  The  following  ex- 
tract from  an  old  ballad,  inserted  in  a  miscellany,  entitled 
Le  Prince  d'' Amour,  Svo,  1660,  gives  some  curious  infor- 
mation upon  this  subject : — 

Now  of  beards  there  bo 
Such  a  companie, 
Of  fashions  such  a  throng, 


That  it  is  very  hard 
To  treat  of  the  beard, 

Though  it  be  ne'er  so  long. 
»  *  *  * 

The  steeletto  beard, 
0,  it  makes  me  afeard, 

It  is  so  sharp  beneath  ; 
For  he  that  doth  place 
A  dagger  in  his  face. 

What  wears  he  in  his  sheeth  I 
*  *  »  » 

The  soldier's  beard 
Doth  match  in  tliis  herd, 

In  figuire  like  a  spade  ; 
With  which  he  will  make 
His  enemies  quake. 

To  think  their  grave  iR  made,  &c. 

'"  Tou  n  le  like  a  kerne  of  Ireland,  your  French  hose  off,  and 
in  your  strait  trossers. 
Trcssers  are  a  kind  of  breeches  made  to  fit  close  to  the 
body;  it  is  said  the  kerns  of  Ireland  wore  no  breeches, 
any  more  than  the  Scotch  highlanders;  therefore  straxt 
trossers  probably  means  in  their  naked  skin,  which  sits 
close  to  them.  In  this  sense  the  Dauphin  evidently  useu 
the  word. 

31  Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice. 
That  is,  not  play  with  them,  but  play  at  dice  for  them. 

"  That  tve  should  dress  us  fairly  for  our  end. 

Dress,  for  address.  That  we  should  prepare  our  mmda 
for  death,  our  souls  for  heaven. 

»3  Legerity,  i.  e.,  lightness,  nimbleness. 

•*  ''Mass,  you  ''Upay  him  then. 

That  is,  bring  him  to  account,  punish  him ;  though  pay, 
in  old  language,  usually  meant  to  beat  or  thrash. 

«>  The  tucket-sonnanee. 
That  is,  an  introductory  flourish  on  the  trumpet;  hf 
speaks  as  in  contempt  of  the  easiness  of  the  conquest. 

*  The  gimmal  bit. 

Gimmal  is,  in  the  western  counties,  a  ring ;  a  gimmal 
bit  is,  therefore,  a  bit  of  which  the  parts  played  one  within 
another.  G^mold  or  gimmaVd  mail,  means  armour  com- 
posed of  links  like  those  of  a  chain,  which  by  its  flexibility 
fitted  better  to  the  shape  of  the  body  than  any  other  kind 
of  defensive  contrivance. 

3'  The  feast  of  Orispian. 

The  battle  of  Agincourt  was  fought  upon  the  25th  of 
October,  1415,  St.  Crispin's  day.  The  legend  upon  which 
this  is  founded  is  as  follows : — "  Crispinus  and  Crispianus 
were  brethren  born  at  Rome  ;  from  whence  they  travelled 
to  Soissons,  in  France,  about  the  yoar  803,  to  propagate 
the  Christian  religion ;  but  because  they  would  not  be 
chargeable  to  others  for  their  maintenance,  they  exercised 
the  trade  of  shoemakers :  but  the  governor  of  the  towu 
discovering  them  to  be  Christians,  ordered  them  to  be  be- 
headed. From  wliich  time  the  shoemakers  made  choice 
of  them  for  their  tutelar  saints." 

se  The  Duke  of  Fork. 

This  is  the  same  person  who  appears  in  Richard  the 
Seoond  by  the  title  of  Duke  of  Aumerle.    After  a  life  of 

869 


NOTES  TO  KING  HENRY  THE  FIPTH. 


intrigue,  and  having  been  in  danger  of  losing  his  head  on 
the  Kcaffold,  ho  at  length  perishes  on  the  field  of  battle. 

S9  Thou  diest  on  point  of  fox. 
Fox  is  an  old  cant  word  for  sword.    Thus,  in  The  DevWs 
aiutrter,  1607  :— 

And  by  this  awful  cross  upon  my  blade. 
And  by  thisyba;  which  stinks  of  Pagan  blood. 

«•  For  I  will  fetch  thy  rim  out  at  thy  throat. 

The  word  rim  has  given  rise  to  much  conjecture ;  War- 
burton  would  read, — 

Or,  I  will  fetch  thy  ransome  out  of  thy  throat. 

But  although  this  restores  sense,  it  destroys  the  metre, 
and  Shakespeare  was  not  likely  to  have  written  so  unmu- 
sical a  line.  Mr.  Steevens  says, — "It  appears  from  Sir 
Arthur  Gorge's  translation  of  Lucan,  1614,  that  some  part 
«fthe  intestines  was  anciently  called  the  rim. — Lucan,  B.  i. 

The  slender  rimme  too  weake  to  part 
The  boyling  liver  from  the  heart. 

I  believe  it  is  now  called  the  diaphragm,  in  human  crea- 
tures, and  the  skirt  or  midriff  in  beasts ;  but  still,  in  some 
f  laces,  the  rim." 

*i  Is  that  a  ton  ofmoys  f 
ilvy  is  a  piece  of  money ;  whence  moi  d'or,  or  moi  of  gold. 
S«0 


<2  Than  this  roaring  devil  of  the  old  play. 

The  boy  compares  Pistol  to  the  devil  in  the  old  morali- 
ties, because  he  is  as  noisy,  turbulent,  and  vain-glorious. 

<3  Uavy  Gam;  esquire. 

This  was  a  brave  Welsh  gentleman  who  saved  the  King's 
life  on  the  field.  Being  sent  by  Henry  before  the  battle  to 
reconnoitre  the  enemy  and  attempt  to  discover  their  num- 
bers, he  returned  with  this  report : — May  it  please  yoa, 
my  liege,  there  are  enough  to  be  killed,  enough  to  be 
taken  prisoners,  and  enough  to  run  away." 

**  Do  we  all  holy  rites. 

According  to  Holinshed, — The  King,  when  he  saw  no 
appearance  of  enemies,  caused  the  retreat  to  be  blown,  and 
gathering  his  army  together,  gave  thanks  to  Almighty  God 
for  so  happy  a  victory,  causing  his  prelates  and  chap- 
eleins  to  sing  this  psalme.  In,  exitu  Israel  de  Egypto;  and 
commanding  every  man  to  kneele  downe  on  the  groundo, 
at  this  verse,  Son  nobis,  domine,  non  nobis,  sed  nomini  t/ut 
da  gloriam;  which  done,  he  caused  Te  Deum  and  certain 
anthems  to  be  sung,  giving  laud  and  praise  to  God,  and 
not  boasting  of  his  own  force,  or  any  humaine  power." 

«  WeiN  now  the  general  of  cur  gracious  emprett. 
The  Earl  of  Essex,  ir  the  rejgn  of  Elizobeth. 


ling  liranj-  tjie  liitjj. 


(PART   THE   FIRST.) 


npHE  question  of  the  authorship  of  this  play  has  been  previously  considered.  Whoever  was  ita 
author,  the  earlier  scenes  of  this  drama  are  most  artistically  adapted  to  introduce  the  misrule 
and  dark  and  bloody  struggles  of  the  turbulent  reign  of  Henry.  The  iron  hand  of  the  hero  of 
Agincourt  being  laid  in  the  grave,  and  the  enthusiastic  patriotism,  which  was  warmed  into  active 
existence  by  his  gorgeous  and  triumphant  career,  having  subsided  into  the  calm  stream  of  common 
life,  the  elements  of  discord  break  forth.  The  fierce  contentions  of  Beaufort  and  Gloucester  show  the 
disordered  state  of  the  kingdom  consequent  upon  the  supremacy  of  a  child,  and  are  a  natural  prelude 
to  the  savage  contests  which  afterwards  took  place  under  the  name  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses. 

Talbot  is  a  boldly  drawn  character ;  he  resembles  a  grim  armed  giant,  whose  presence  every- 
where causes  terror  and  flight,  yet  he  is  thoroughly  English  in  his  nature — that  is,  he  possesses  all 
those  qualities  which  were  prominent  in  the  most  just  and  patriotic  warriors  of  this  country  in  the 
fifteenth  century.  Terrible  to  his  enemies,  fierce  and  savage  in  war,  he  is  yet  mild  and  genial  to  his 
asi'ociates,  while  on  his  tenderness  as  a  father  the  great  interest  of  his  character  depends.  The  scene 
between  him  and  the  Countess  of  Auvergne  is  an  admirable  episode,  full  of  life  and  vigour,  and  writ- 
ten by  the  pen  of  genius ;  if,  according  to  the  conjecture  of  Mr.  Malone,  either  Greene  or  Peele  was 
the  author  of  this  play,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  they  have  not  left  more  such  scenes  for  the  admira- 
tion of  posterity.  The  generosity  of  Talbot  to  the  crafty  but  outwitted  Frenchwoman,  is  the  result 
of  a  noble  spirit;  a  meaner  general  would  probably  have  razed  her  castle  to  its  foundations,  or  left 
it  in  flames,  as  a  punishment  for  her  perfidious  abuse  of  the  sacred  laws  of  hospitality. 

The  brave  Talbot  is  at  last  sacrificed  through  the  dissensions  and  treachery  of  York  and  Somer- 
set :  each  blames  the  other  for  neglect,  but  stands  aloof  himself;  the  intrepid  general  is  surrounded 
without  the  walls  of  Bordeaux  by  forces  immeasurably  superior  to  his  own,  and,  after  performing 
prodigies  of  valour,  is  slain.  Just  before  his  death  he  has  an  interview  with  his  son,  whom  after  an 
absence  of  seven  years  he  had  sent  for,  to  tutor  in  the  strategies  of  war.  The  meeting  is  a  melan- 
choly one;  certain  death  awaits  them  both,  unless  avoided  by  flight — the  elder  Talbot,  grown  grey 
in  peril  and  in  honour,  counsels  his  son  to  escape,  but  will  himself  remain  to  meet  his  fate ;  the 
young  hero  will  not  stir  from  the  side  of  his  father,  who  eventually  dies  with  the  dead  body  of  his 
son  in  his  arras. 

In  the  scene  in  the  Temple  Garden,  the  great  Earl  of  Warwick  is  introduced — that  Warwick 
whose  after  achievements  gained  for  him  the  title  of  the  "  King-maker,"  and  although  he  does  not 
appear  so  prominently  in  this  play,  as  in  the  two  following  ones,  yet  here  we  have  the  germs  of  his 
future  character,  and  a  very  spirited  and  Shakespearian  speech  is  uttered  by  him.  Somerset  and 
riantagenet  having  disputed  on  some  legal  question,  appeal  to  the  Earl,  who  at  first  declines  to  side 
with  either  party,  exclaiming, — 

Between  two  hawks,  which  flies  the  higher  pitch, 
Between  two  dogs,  which  hath  the  deeper  mouth. 
Between  two  blades,  which  bears  tiae  better  temper, 
Between  two  horscb,  whicfi  doth  bear  him  best, 
Between  two  girls,  which  hath  the  merriest  eye, 
/  861 


!  i 


I  have,  perhaps,  some  shallow  epirit  of  judgment: 
But  in  these  nice  sharp  quillets  of  the  law, 
Good  faith,  I  am  no  wiser  than  a  daw. 

Something  of  the  princely  and  chivalrous  earl,  whose  hospitality  was  as  royal  and  boundless  as 
his  wealth,  and  who  kept  so  many  retainers,  that  sometimes  six  oxen  were  eaten  by  theru  at  a  break- 
&st,  is  shadowed  forth  in  this  hearty  and  bounding  speech.  They  who  are  conversant  with  the  lan- 
guage of  our  poet,  will  need  no  argument  to  induce  them  to  believe  that  it  was  the  work  of  his  pen. 
In  this  scene  we  have  detailed  the  supposed  origin  of  the  two  badges,  the  white  rose  and  the  red, 
afterwards  worn  by  the  rival  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

The  character  of  Joan  la  Pucelle,  though  it  has  not  the  finish  of  Shakespeare's  later  works,  yet 
partakes  of  their  strength.  It  is  only  to  be  regretted  that  he  has  attributed  to  satanic  agency  what 
was  doubtless  the  result  of  pure  patriotism  and  vivid  religious  enthusiasm ;  but  the  era  of  the  poet 
was  one  of  intense  and  obstinate  superstition,  when  to  express  a  disbelief  in  witchcraft  was  frequently 
deemed  an  act  of  impiety,  and  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  in  his  youth  he  should  be  emancipated 
from  the  errors  of  his  time.  But  this  unjust  picture  has  given  Schlegel  occasion  to  say  that  "  the 
wonderful  saviour  of  her  country,  Joan  of  Arc,  is  portrayed  by  Shakespeare  with  an  Englishman's 
prejudices."  History  has  since  done  justice  to  her  memory,  and  time  has  found  the  solution  of  her 
supposed  miraculous  influence.  The  inhabitants  of  the  little  hamlet  where  she  was  born  were  re- 
markable for  their  simplicity  and  their  superstition ;  and  the  poor  peasant  girl,  whom  a  pious  educa- 
tion had  ripened  into  a  religious  enthusiast,  was  led,  while  tending  her  flocks  in  solitude  among  the 
hills  and  pastures  of  a  wild  and  picturesque  country,  to  occupy  herself  with  day-dreams  concerning 
the  ascetic  and  miraculous  lives  of  the  saints,  and  the  wonderful  heroism  of  the  virgin  martyrs.  This 
sort  of  life  led  to  its  natural  result  in  a  fervent  and  susceptible  mind ;  after  a  short  time  she  was 
haunted  by  visions,  and  listened  in  ecstasy  to  the  voices  of  spirits ;  angelic  faces  appeared  to  her  sur- 
rounded by  a  halo  of  light  and  glory ;  amongst  them  were  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Margaret,  wearing 
crowns  which  glittered  with  celestial  jewels,  and  these  heavenly  visitants  spoke  to  her  in  voices 
which  were  sweeter  than  the  softest  music.  They  commanded  her  to  deliver  her  country,  and  told 
her  that  she  would  be  endowed  with  strength  from  heaven.  The  devoted  enthusiast  went  to  the 
king,  declared  her  mission,  liberated  France,  and  was  finally,  with  a  cruelty  at  which  humanity 
recoils,  burnt  at  the  stake  for  sorcery.  It  is  to  be  wished  that  Shakespeare  had  taken  a  more  lofty 
and  generous  view  of  her  character.  The  family  of  this  unhappy  woman  was  ennobled  by  the 
monarch  to  whom  she  had  rendered  such  important  services,  but  he  made  no  effort  whatever  to 
rescue  from  the  hands  of  the  English  a  heroine  "to  whom  the  more  generous  superstition  of  the 
ancients  would  have  erected  altars." 

Viewed  historically,  there  are  some  slight  apologies  to  be  made  for  the  conduct  of  York  in  at- 
tempting to  supplant  Henry  on  the  throne ;  but  in  the  drama  he  stands  convicted  of  complicated 
treachery  and  constant  perjury.  The  feeble  but  generous  king  restores  him  to  his  rank  and  estates, 
which  had  been  forfeited  by  the  treason  of  his  father,  who  was  beheaded  for  a  plot  to  assassinate 
Henry  the  Fifth.     He  promises  eternal  gratitude  and  allegiance,  exclaiming — 

And  so  thrive  Eichard  as  thy  foes  may  fall ! 

And  as  my  duty  springs,  so  perish  they 

That  grudge  one  thought  against  your  majesty! 

Yet  this  ^  -jry  man,  perceiving  the  imbecility  of  Henry,  casts  an  evil  eye  unto  the  crown,  and 
eventually  he  iud  his  sons,  after  shedding  the  blood  of  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  Englishmen,  ex- 
terminate the  house  of  Lancaster,  and  place  the  sensual  perjured  Edward  upon  the  throne. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  play  the  young  king  does  not  appear,  and  when  he  does,  it  is  only  to 
make  a  miserable  exhibition  of  his  weakness  and  vacillation  of  mind ;  for,  although  contracted  to 
another  lady,  he  falls  in  love  with  Margaret  merely  from  Suffolk's  description  of  her  personal  charms, 
and  thus  becomes  the  dupe  of  that  cunning  courtier,  who  loves  her  himself  The  play  ends  abruptly 
with  Henry's  dispatching  Suffolk  to  France  to  woo  Margaret  for  him,  and  the  wily  emissary  speeds 
ou  his  mission  rejoicing  in  the  probable  success  of  his  treachery.  The  date  of  this  drama  cannot  be 
fixed  with  any  degree  of  certainty,  but  it  was  probably  one  of  the  poet's  earliest  efforts. 
862 


PERSONS    EEPEESENTED. 


King  Henhy  the  Sixth. 
Appei  r«,Act  III.  sc.  1;  8C.4.  Act  IV.  sc.  1.  Act  V.  sc.  1;  sc.  5. 

Duke  of  Gloucester,  Uncle  to  the  King,  and  Pro- 

■  tector. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc,  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  III.  bc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  IV. 
sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  BC.  6. 

Duke  of  Bedford,  Uncle  to  the  King,  and  Regent 

of  France. 
Appears.  Act  I.  sc  1.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc  2.    Act  III.  sc  2. 

Thomas  Beaufort,  Duke  of  Exeter,  Oreat-uncle 

to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc  1.    Act 
V.  BC.  1 ;  sc.  5. 

IIenry  Beaufort,  Great-uncle  to  the  King,  Bishop 

of  Winchester,  a7id  afterwards  Cardinal. 

App^arf,  Act  I.  ec  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  III.  sc  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Richard  Plantagenet,  eldetit  Son  of  Richard,  late 

Earl  of  Cambridge ;  afterwards  Duke  of  York. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4;  so.  5.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ; 

sc  3.    Act  V.  8c.  8 ;  so.  4. 

Earl  of  Warwick. 
Appears  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  so.  1, 
IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Earl  of  Salisbury. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc  4. 

Earl  of  SuffoIk. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  so.  1, 
V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  5 ; 

Lord  Talbot,  afterxoards  Earl  of  Shrewsbury. 

Appears,A{il  I.  sc  4 ;  sc  5.  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3.  Act  III. 

f  c.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.   Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc  2  j  sc.  5 ;  sc.  6 ;  sc.  7. 

John  Talbot,  his  Son. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  5 ;  sc  6 ;  sc.  7. 

Edmund  Mortimer,  Earl  o/"  March. 
Two  Officers  of  the  Tower,  his  Keepers. 

Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  5. 

Sir  John  Fastolfe. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc  2.     Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Sir  William  Lucy. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  7. 

Sir  William  Glansdale. 

Sir  Thomas  Garqrave. 

Appear,  Act  I.  sc  4. 

Mayor  of  London. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc  8.    Act  III.  bc.  1. 

WooDviLLE,  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 
Appears,  Acl  I.  ec.  8. 


Act 


-Aot 


Vernon,  of  the  White  Rose  or  York  faction. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  bc.  4.    Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Basset,  of  the  Red  Rose  or  Lancaster  faction. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  4.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

Charles,  Dauphin,  and  afterwards  King  of  France. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2:  sc  5;  so.  6.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III. 

sc.  2 ;  so.  3.    Act  IV.  so.  7.    Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc  4. 

Reignier,  Duke  of  Anjou,  and  titular  King  of 

Naples. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc  2  ;  sc.  6.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc  3; 
sc.  4. 

DuKE  OF  Burgundy. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  III.  so.  2  ;  sc.  8.   Act  IV 

BC.  7.    Act  V.  BC.  2. 

Duke  of  Alenqon. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2 ;  sc  6.    Act  II.  sc  1.    Act  III.  sc  2 

sc.  8.    Act  IV.  sc  7.    Act  V.  bc.  2 ;  sc.  4. 

Bastard  of  Orleans. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  so.  1.     Act  III.  ec.  2 ;  sc.  S 

BC  7.    Act  V.  so.  4. 

Governor  of  Paris. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Master  Gunner  of  Orleans,  and  his  Son. 

A^ear,  Act  I.  sc.  4, 

r.ENERAL  OF  THE  French  Forces  in  Bordeavs, 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

A  French  Sergeant  and  Two  Sentinels. 
Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

A  Porter. 
Appears,  Aot  II.  sc.  2. 

An  Old  Shepherd,  Father  to  Joan  la  Pucelle. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Margaret,   Daughter   to   Reignier;    afterward* 
married  to  King  Henry. 

Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  3. 

Countess  of  Auvergne. 

Appears,  Aot  II.  so.  8. 

Joan  la  Pucelle,  commonly  called  foan  of  Arc. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2;  sc  5 ;  sc.  6.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Aot  III. 

sc  2 ;  sc.  8.    Act  IV.  sc.  7.    Act  V.  so.  8 ;  sc  4. 

Fiends  appearing  to  La  Pucelle,  Lords,  Warder-i 
of  the  Tower,  Heralds,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Mes- 
sengers, and  several  Attendants  both  of  the 
English  and  French. 

SCENE, — Sometimes  in  England,  and  sometimes 
in  France. 

86S 


FIRST    PART    OF 


ling  lenrq  tlif.lixtfi. 


ACT   I 


SCENE  I.— Westminster  Ahhey. 


Dead  march.  Corpse  o/'King  Henry  the  Fifth 
discovered,  lying  in  state ;  attended  on  hy  the 
Dukes  of  Bedford,  Gloster,  and  Exeter; 
the  Earl  of  Warwick,'  the  Bishop  of  Win- 
chester, Heralds,  c&c. 

Bed.  Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black,''  yield 

day  to  night  1 
Comets,  importing  change  of  times  and  states, 
Brandish  your  crystal  tresses  in  the  sky ; 
And  with  them  scourge  the  bad  revolting  stars, 
That  have  consented  unto  Henry's  death  !* 
Henry  the  Fifth,  too  famous  to  live  long ! 
England  ne'er  lost  a  king  of  so  much  worth. 

Glo.  England  ne'er  had  a  king,  until  his  time. 
Virtue  he  had,  deserving  to  command : 
His  brandish'd   sword  did  blind  men  with  his 

beams  ; 
His  arms  spread  wider  than  a  dragon's  wings ; 
His  sparkling  eyes  replete  with  wrathful  fire, 
More  dazzled  and  drove  back  his  enemies, 
Than  mid-day  sun,  fierce  bent  against  their  faces. 
What  should  I  say  ?  his  deeds  exceed  all  speech  : 
He  ne'er  lift  up  his  hand,  but  conquered. 

IHxe.  We  mourn  in  black :  Why  mourn  we  not 

in  blood  ? 
Henry  is  dead,  and  never  shall  revive : 
Upon  a  wooden  coflSn  we  attend ; 
And  death's  dishonourable  victory 
We  with  our  stately  presence  glorify, 
Like  captives  bound  to  a  triumphant  car. 
What  f  shall  we  curse  the  planets  of  mishap, 

864 


That  plotted  thus  our  glory's  overthrow  ? 
Or  shall  we  think  the  subtle-witted  French 
Conjurers  and  sorcerers,  that,  afraid  of  him, 
By  magic  verses  have  contriv'd  his  end  ? 

Win.  He  was  a  king  bless'd  of  the  King  ol 
kings. 
Unto  the  French  the  dreadful  judgment  day 
So  dreadful  will  not  be,  as  was  his  sight. 
The  battles  of  the  Lord  of  hosts  he  fought : 
The  church's  prayers  made  him  so  prosperous. 
Glo.  The  church  !  Vhere  is  it  ?    Had  not  church- 
men pray'd. 
His  thread  of  life  had  not  so  soon  decay'd : 
None  do  you  like  but  an  effeminate  prince. 
Whom,  like  a  school-boy,  you  may  over-awe. 
Win.  Gloster,  whate'er  we  like,  thou  art  pro- 
tector ; 
And  lookest  to  command  the  prince,  and  realm. 
Thy  wife  is  proud ;  she  holdeth  thee  in  awe. 
More  than  God,  or  religious  churchmen,  may. 
Glo.    Name  not  religion,  for  thou  lov'st  the 
flesh ; 
And  ne'er  throughout  the  year  to  church  thou  go'st, 
Except  it  be  to  pray  against  thy  foes. 

Bed.    Cease,  cease   these  jars,  and  rest  year 
minds  in  peace ! 
Let 's  to  the  altar : — Heralds,  wait  on  us : — 
Instead  of  gold,  we  '11  offer  up  our  arms ; 
Since  arms  avail  not,  now  that  Henry's  dead. — 
Posterity,  await  for  wretched  years. 
When  at  their  mothers'  moist  eyes  babes  shall 

suck ; 
Our  isle  be  made  a  nourish  of  salt  tears/ 


ACT   I. 


FIRST  PART  OF  KmG  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


BCENB   t 


And  none  but  women  left  to  wail  the  dead. — 
Henry  the  Fifth  !  thy  ghost  I  invocate ; 
Prosper  this  realm,  keep  it  from  civil  broils  ! 
Combat  with  adverse  planets  in  the  heavens ! 
A  far  more  glorious  star  thy  soul  will  make, 
Than  Julius  Caesar,  or  bright* 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  honourable  lords,  health  to  you  all ! 
Sad  tidings  bring  I  to  you  out  of  France, 
Of  loss,  of  slaughter,  and  discomfiture  : 
Guienne,  Champaigne,  Rheims,  Orleans, 
Paris,  Guysors,  Poictiers,  are  all  quite  lost. 

Bed.  What  say'st  thou,  man,  before  dead  Hen- 
ry's corse  ? 
Speak  softly ;  or  the  loss  of  those  great  towns 
Will  make  him  burst  his  lead,  and  rise  from  death. 

Glo.  Is  Paris  lost  ?  is  Roiien  yielded  up  ? 
If  Henry  were  recall'd  to  life  again, 
These  news  would  cause  him  once  more  yield  the 
ghost. 

Exe.  How  were  they  lost  ?  what  treachery  was 
us'd  ? 

Mess.  No  treachery ;    but  want    of  men    and 
money. 
Among  the  soldiers  this  is  muttered, — 
That  here  you  maintain  several  factions ; 
And,  whilst  afield  should  be  despatch'd  and  fought. 
You  are  disputing  of  your  generals. 
One  would  have  ling'ring  wars,  with  little  cost; 
Another  would  fly  swift  but  wanteth  wings ; 
A  third  man  thinks,  without  expense  at  all, 
By  guileful  fair  words  peace  may  be  obtain'd. 
Awake,  awake,  English  nobility ! 
Let  not  sloth  dim  your  honours,  new-begot : 
Cropp'd  are  the  flower-de-luces  in  your  arms ; 
Of  England's  coat  one  half  is  cut  away. 

Exe.  Were  our  tears  wanting  to  this  funeral, 
These  tidings  would  call  forth  her  flowing  tides. 

Bed.  Me  they  concern ;  regent  I  am  of  France : — 
Give  me  my  steeled  coat,  I  '11  fight  for  France. — 
Away  with  these  disgraceful  wailing  robes ! 
Wounds  I  will  lend  the  French,  instead  of  eyes. 
To  weep  their  intermissive  miseries. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

2nd  Mess.  Lords,  view  these  letters,  full  of  bad 
mischance, 
France  is  revolted  from  the  English  quite ; 
Except  some  petty  towns  of  no  import : 
The  Dauphin  Charles  is  crowned  king  in  Rheims ; 
The  bastard  of  Orleans  wjth  him  is  join'd ; 


Reignier,  duke  of  Anjou,  Joth  take  his  part ; 
The  duke  of  Alencon  flieth  to  his  side. 

Exe.  The  Dauphin  crowned  king!  all  fly  to 
him ! 
O,  whither  shall  we  fly  from  this  reproach  ? 

Glo.  We    will    not    fly,  but    to   our   enemiee' 
throats : — 
Bedford,  if  thou  be  slack,  I  '11  fight  it  out. 

Bed.  Gloster,  why  doubt'st  thou  of  my  forward- 
ness? 
An  army  have  I  muster'd  in  my  thoughts. 
Wherewith  already  France  is  over-run. 

Enter  a  third  Messenger. 

3rd  Mess.  My  gracious  lords, — to  add  to  your 
laments. 
Wherewith  you  now  bedew  king  Henry's  hearse, — 
I  must  inform  you  of  a  dismal  fight, 
Betwixt  the  stout  lord  Talbot  and  the  French. 
Win.  What !  wherein  Talbot  overcame  ?  is 't  so  f 
drd  Mess.  0,  no  ;  wherein  lord  Talbot  was  over- 
thrown : 
The  circumstance  I  '11  tell  you  more  at  large. 
The  tenth  of  August  last,  this  dreadful  lord, 
Retiring  from  the  siege  of  Orleans, 
Having  full  scarce  six  thousand  in  his  troop, 
By  three  and  twenty  thousand  of  the  French 
Was  round  encompassed  and  set  upon : 
No  leisure  had  he  to  enrank  his  men  ; 
He  wanted  pikes  to  set  before  his  archers ; 
Instead  whereof,  sharp  stakes,  pluck'd  out  of  hedges. 
They  pitched  in  the  ground  confusedly. 
To  keop  the  horsemen  off  from  breaking  in. 
More  than  three  hours  the  fight  continued ; 
Where  valiant  Talbot,  above  human  thought. 
Enacted  wonders  with  his  sword  and  lance. 
Hundreds  he  sent  to  hell,  and  none  durst  staii^l 

him ; 
Here,  there,  and  every  where,  enrag'd  he  slew : 
The  French  exclaim'd,  The  devil  was  in  arras ; 
All  the  whole  army  stood  agaz'd  on  him : 
His  soldiers,  spying  his  undaunted  spirit. 
A  Talbot !  a  Talbot !  cried  out  amain, 
And  rush'd  into  the  bowels  of  the  battle. 
Here  had  the  conquest  fully  been  seul'd  up, 
If  sir  John  Fastolfe^  had  not  play'd  the  coward  . 
He  being  in  the  vaward,  (plac'd  behind. 
With  purpose  to  relieve  and  follow  them,) 
Cowardly  fled,  not  having  struck  one  stroke. 
Hence  grew  the  general  wreck  and  massacre : 
Enclosed  were  they  with  their  enemies : 
A  base  Walloon,  to  win  the  Dauphin's  grace, 

865 


▲OT  I. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


RCBNE    II. 


Tlirust  Talbot  with  a  spear  into  the  back ; 
Whom  all   France,  with   their   chief  assembled 

strength, 
Durst  not  presume  to  look  once  in  the  face. 

Bed.  Is  Talbot  slain  ?  then  I  will  slay  myself, 
VoT  living  idly  here,  in  pomp  and  ease. 
Whilst  such  a  worthy  leader,  wanting  aid, 
Unto  his  dastard  foe-men  is  betray'd. 

Srd  Mess.  O  no,  he  lives ;  but  is  took  prisoner, 
And  lord  Scales  with  him,  and  lord  Hungerford : 
Most  of  the  rest  slaughter'd,  or  took,  likewise. 

Bed.  His  ransom  there  is  none  but  I  shall  pay  : 
I  '11  hale  the  Dauphin  headlong  from  his  throne, 
His  crown  shall  bo  the  ransom  of  my  friend ; 
Four  of  their  lords  I  '11  change  for  one  of  ours. — 
Farewell,  my  masters  ;  to  my  task  will  I ; 
Bonfires  in  France  forthwith  I  am  to  make, 
To  keep  our  great  Saint  George's  feast  withal : 
Ten  thousand  soldiers  with  me  I  will  take. 
Whose  bloody  deeds  shall  make  all  Europe  quake. 

Srd  Mess.  So  you  had  need  ;  for  Orleans  is  be- 
•  sieg'd; 
The  English  army  is  grown  weak  and  faint : 
The  Earl  of  Salisbury  craveth  supply, 
And  hardly  keeps  his  men  from  mutiny. 
Since  they,  so  few,  watch  such  a  multitude. 

JKre.    Remember,  lords,  your  oaths  to  Henry 
sworn ; 
Either  to  quell  the  Dauphin  utterly. 
Or  bring  him  in  obedience  to  your  yoke. 

Bed.  I  do  remember  it ;  and  here  take  leave. 
To  go  about  my  preparation.  [^Exit. 

Olo.  I  '11  to  the  Tower,  with  all  the  haste  I  can. 
To  view. the  artillery  and  munition; 
And  then  I  will  proclaim  young  Henry  king.  [Exit. 

Exe.  To  Eltham  will  I,  where  the  young  king  is. 
Being  ordain'd  his  special  governor ; 
And  for  his  safety  there  I  '11  best  devise.        \Exit. 

Win.  Each  hath  his  place  and  function  to  at- 
tend : 
I  am  left  out ;  for  me  nothing  remains. 
But  long  I  will  not  be  Jack-out-of-ofl5ce  ; 
The  king  from  Eltham  I  intend  to  send, 
And  sit  at  chiefest  stern  of  public  weal. 

\Exit.  Scene  closes. 

SCENE  II.— -France.     Be/ore  Orleans. 

Enttr  Charles,  with  his  Forces ;  Alen^on, 
Reionier,  and  Others. 

Char.  Mars  his  true  moving,   even  as  in  the 
heavens, 
86G 


So  in  the  earth,  to  this  day  is  not  known : 
Late  did  he  shine  upon  the  English  side ; 
Now  we  are  victors,  upon  us  he  smiles. 
What  towns  of  any  moment,  but  we  have  ? 
At  pleasure  here  we  lie,  near  Orleans ; 
Otherwhiles,  the  famish'd  English,  like  pale  ghosts 
Faintly  besiege  us  one  hour  in  a  month. 

Alen.  They  want  their  porridge,  and  their  Cat 

bull-beeves : 
Either  they  must  be  dieted  like  mules, 
And  have  their  provender  tied  to  their  mouths. 
Or  piteous  they  will  look,  like  drowned  mice. 
Heiff.  Let 's  raise  the  siege :  Why  live  we  idly 

here? 
Talbot  is  taken,  whom  we  wont  to  fear : 
Remaineth  none  but  mad-brain'd  Salisbury  ; 
And  he  may  well  in  fretting  spend  his  gall. 
Nor  men,  nor  money,  hath  he  to  make  war. 
Char.  Sound,  sound  alarum ;  we  will  rush  on 

them. 
Now  for  the  honour  of  the  forlorn  French  : — 
Him  I  forgive  my  death,  that  killeth  me. 
When  he  sees  me  go  back  one  foot,  or  fly.  [Exetmt. 

Alarums;  Excursions;  afterwards  a  Retreat. 

Re-enter  Charles,  Alenjon,  Reignier,  and 
Others. 

Char.  Who  ever  saw  the  like  ?  what  men  have 
I?— 
Dogs !  cowards !  dastards ! — I  would  ne'er  have  fled, 
But  that  they  left  me  'midst  my  enemies. 

Reig.  Salisbury  is  a  desperate  homicide  ; 
He  fighteth  as  one  weary  of  his  life. 
The  other  lords,  like  lions  wanting  food. 
Do  rush  upon  us  as  their  hungry  prey. 

Alen.  Froissard,  a  countryman  of  ours,  records 
England  all  Olivers  and  Rowlands  bred,^ 
During  the  time  Edward  the  Third  did  reign. 
More  truly  now  may  this  be  verified ; 
For  none  but  Samsons,  and  Goliasses, 
It  sendeth  forth  to  skirmish.     One  to  ten  ! 
Lean  raw-bon'd  rascals !  who  would  e'er  suppose 
They  had  such  courage  and  audacity  ? 

Char.  Let 's  leave  this  town  ;  for  they  are  hJli^ 
brain'd  slaves. 
And  hunger  will  enforce  them  to  be  more  eager : 
Of  old  I  know  them  ;  rather  with  their  teeth 
The  walls  they  '11  tear  down,  than  forsake  the  siege, 

Reig.  I  think,  by  some  odd  gimmals,  or  devic»> 
Their  arms  are  set,  like  clocks,  still  to  strike  on ; 
Else  ne'er  could  they  hold  out  so,  as  they  do 


ACT   1 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCBNB  n. 


By  my  consent,  we  '11  e'en  let  them  alone. 
Alen.  Be  it  so. 

Enter  the  Bastard  of  Orleans. 

Bast.  Where  's  the  prince  Dauphin,  I  have  news 

for  him. 
Char.  Bastard  of  Orleans,  thrice  welcome  to  iis.^ 
Bast.  Methinks,  your  looks  are  sad,  your  cheer 
appall'd ; 
Hath  the  late  overthrow  wrought  this  offence  ? 
Be  not  dismay'd,  for  succour  is  at  hand  : 
A  holy  maid  hither  with  me  I  bring, 
Which,  by  a  vision  sent  to  her  from  heaven. 
Ordained  is  to  raise  this  tedious  siege, 
And  drive  the  English  forth  the  bounds  of  France. 
The  spirit  of  deep  prophecy  she  hath, 
Exceeding  the  nine  sibyls  of  old  Rome  f 
What  'a  past,  and  what 's  to  come,  she  can  descry. 
Speak,  shall  I  call  her  in  ?     Believe  my  words, 
For  they  are  certain  and  unfallible. 

Char.  Go,  call  her  in  :  [Exit  Bast.]   But,  first, 
to  try  her  skill, 
Reignier,  stand  thou  as  Dauphin  in  my  place  : 
Question  her  proudly,  let  thy  looks  be  stern  : — 
By  this  means  shall  we  sound  what  skill  she  hath. 

[Retires. 

Enter  La  Pucelle,  Bastard  of  Orleans,  and 
Others. 

Reig.  Fair  maid,  is  't  thou  wilt  do  these  won- 
d'rous  feats  ? 

Puc.  Reignier,  is  't  thou  that  thinkest  to  be- 
guile me  ? — 
Where  is  the  Dauphin  ? — come,  come  from  behind ; 
I  know  thee  well,  though  never  seen  before. 
Be  not  amaz'd,  there  's  nothing  hid  from  me : 
In  private  will  I  talk  with  thee  apart ; — 
Stand  back,  you  lords,  and  give  us  leave  a  while. 

Reig.  She  takes  upon  her  bravely  at  first  dash. 

Puc.  Dauphin,  I  am   by  birth   a  shepherd's 
daughter. 
My  wit  untrain'd  in  any  kind  of  art. 
Heaven,  and  our  Lady  gracious,  hath  it  pleas'd 
To  shine  on  my  contemptible  estate : 
Lo,  whilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs, 
And  to  sun's  parching  heat  display'd  my  cheeks, 
God's  mother  deigned  to  appear  to  me ; 
And,  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty, 
Will'd  mc  to  leave  ray  base  vocation, 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity : 
Her  aid  she  promis'd,  and  assur'd  success : 
In  complete  glory  she  reveal'd  herself: 


And,  whereas  I  was  black  and  swart  before, 
With  those  clear  rays  which  she  infus'd  on  me. 
That  beauty  am  I  bless'd  with,  which  you  see. 
Ask  me  what  question  thou  canst  possible, 
And  I  will  answer  unpremeditated  : 
My  courage  try  by  combat,  if  thou  dar'st, 
And  thou  shalt  find  that  I  exceed  my  sex. 
Resolve  on  this :  Thou  shalt  be  fortunate. 
If  thou  receive  me  for  thy  warlike  mate. 

Char.  Thou  hast  astonish'd  me  with  thy  higlr 
terras ; 
Only  this  proof  I  '11  of  thy  valour  make, — 
In  single  combat  thou  shalt  buckle  with  me; 
And,  if  thou  vanquishest,  thy  words  are  true  ; 
Otherwise,  I  renounce  all  confidence. 

Puc.  I  am  prepar'd :  here  is  my  keen-edg*d  sword, 
Deck'd  with  five  flower-de-luces  on  each  side; 
The   which    at   Touraine,    in    Saint    Katharine's 

churchyard. 
Out  of  a  deal  of  old  iron  I  chose  forth. 

Char.  Then    come   o'  God's   name,  I  fear  no 

woman. 
P?<c.  And,  while  I  live,  I  '11  ne'er  fly  from  a  man. 

[They  fight. 
Char.    Stay,    stay    thy   hands ;    thou    art    an 
Amazon, 
And  fightest  with  the  sword  of  Deborah. 

Puc.  Christ's  mother  helps  me,  else  I  were  too 

weak. 
Char.  Whoe'er  helps  thee,  't  is  thou  that  must 
help  me : 
Impatiently  I  burn  with  thy  desire ; 
My  heart  and  hands  thou  hast  at  once  subdu'd. 
Excellent  Pucelle,  if  thy  name  be  so. 
Let  me  thy  servant,  and  not  sovereign,  be; 
'T  is  the  French  Dauphin  sueth  to  thee  thus. 
Puc.  I  must  not  yield  to  any  rites  of  love. 
For  my  profession  's  sacred  from  above : 
When  I  have  chased  all  thy  foes  from  hence, 
Then  will  I  think  upon  a  recompense. 

Char.  Mean  time,  look  gracious  on  thy  prostrate 

thrall. 
Reig.  My  lord,  methinks,  is  very  long  in  talk. 
Alen.  Doubtless  he  shrives  this  woman  to  her 
smock ; 
Else  ne'er  could  he  so  long  protract  his  speech. 
Reig.  Shall  we  disturb  him,  since  he  keeps  no 

mean  ? 
Alen.  He  may  mean  more  than  we  poor  men 
do  know : 
These   women   are  shrewd   teraptere  with    theii 
tongues. 

Wl 


ACT   I. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE   in. 


Reig.    My  lord,  where  are  you?    what  devise 
you  on  ? 
Shall  we  give  over  Orleans,  or  no  ? 

Puc.  Why,  no,  I  say,  distrustful  recreants ! 
Fia:ht  till  the  last  gasp ;  I  will  be  your  guard. 

Char.  What  she  says,  I  '11  confirm  ;  we  'II  fight 
it  out. 

Puc,  Assign'd  am  I  to  be  the  English  scourge. 
This  night  the  siege  assuredly  I  '11  raise : 
Expect  Saint  Martin's  summer,  halcyon  days, 
Since  I  have  entered  into  these  wars. 
Glory  is  like  a  circle  in  the  water, 
Which  never  ceaseth  to  enlarge  itself. 
Till,  by  broad  spreading,  it  disperse  to  nought. 
With  Henry's  death,  the  English  circle  ends  ; 
Dispersed  are  the  glories  it  included. 
Now  am  I  like  that  proud  insulting  ship. 
Which  Caesar  and  his  fortune  bare  at  once. 

Char.  Was  Mahomet  inspired  with  a  dove  ?'" 
Thou  with  an  eagle  art  inspired  then. 
Helen,  the  mother  of  great  Constantine, 
Nor  yet  Saint  Philip's  daughters,  were  like  thee." 
Bright  star  of  Venus,  fall'n  down  on  the  earth, 
How  may  I  reverently  worship  thee  enough  ? 

Alen.  Leave  ofi"  delays,  and  let  us  raise  the 


Beig.  Woman,  do  what  thou  canst  to  save  our 
honours ; 
Drive  them  from  Orleans,  and  be  immortaliz'd. 
Char.  Presently  we  '11  try: — Come,  let's  away 
about  it : 
No  prophet  will  I  trust,  if  she  prove  false. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI— London.     Hill  before  the  Tower. 

Enter,  at  the  Gates,  the  Duke  of  Gloster,  with 
his  Serving-men,  in  blue  coats. 

Glo.  I  am  come  to  survey  the  Tower  this  day ; 
Since  Henry's  death,  I  fear,  there  is  conveyance.'* 
Where  be  these  warders,  that  they  wait  not  here  ? 
Open  the  gates ;  Gloster  it  is  that  calls. 

[Sei'vants  knock. 
\st  Ward.  [  Within^  Who  is  there  that  knocks 

so  imperiously  ? 
Isi  Serv.  It  is  the  noble  duke  of  Gloster. 
2nd  Ward.  [  Within^  Whoe'er  he  be,  you  may 

not  be  let  in. 
\st  Sprv.  Answer  you  so  the  lord  protector,  vil- 
lains ? 
\st  Ward.  [Within.]   The  Lord  protect  him! 
so  we  answer  hiiu  : 


We  do  no  otherwise  than  we  are  will'd. 

Glo.  Who  willed  you?  or  whose  will  stands, 
but  mine  ? 
There  's  none  protector  of  the  realm,  but  I.— 
Break  up  the  gates,  I  '11  be  your  warrantize : 
Shall  I  be  flouted  thus  by  dunghill  grooms  ? 

Servants  rush  at  the  Tower  Gates.     Enter,  to  thi 
Gates,  WooDviLLE,  the  Lieutenant. 

Wood.  [Within.]  What  noise  is  this?    what 

traitors  have  we  here  ? 
Glo.  Lieutenant,  is  it  you,  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 
Open  the  gates ;  here 's  Gloster,  that  would  enter. 
Wood,  [  Within.]   Have  patience,  noble  duke ; 
I  may  not  open  ; 
The  cardinal  of  Winchester  forbids  : 
From  him  I  have  express  commandment, 
That  thou,  nor  none  of  thine,  shall  be  let  in. 
Glo.  Faint-hearted  Woodville,  prizest  him  'fore 
me? 
Airogant  Winchester  ?  that  haughty  prelate, 
Whom  Henry,   our   late   sovereign,   ne'er   could 

brook  ? 
Thou  art  no  friend  to  God,  or  to  the  king : 
Open  the  gates,  or  I  'II  shut  thee  out  shortly. 

1st  Serv.  Open  the  gates  unto  the  lord  protector 
Or  we  '11  burst  them  open,  if  that  you  come  not 
quickly. 

Enter  Winchester,  attended  by  a  Train  of  Ser 
vants  in  tawny  Coats. 

Win.   How  now,  ambitious  Humphry  ?    what 

means  this? 
Glo.  Piel'd  priest,"  dost  thou  command  me  to 

be  shut  out? 
Win.  I  do,  thou  most  usurping  proditor, 
And  not  protector  of  the  king  or  realm. 

Glo.  Stand  back,  thou  manifest  conspirator; 
Thou,  that  contriv'dst  to  murder  our  dead  lord; 
Thou,  that  giv'st  whores  indulgences  to  sin  :'■* 
I  '11  canvass  thee  in  thy  broad  cardinal's  hat,'* 
If  thou  proceed  in  this  thy  insolence. 

Win.  Nay,  stand  thou  back,  I  will  not  budge  a 
foot; 
This  l>e  Damascus,  be  thou  cursed  Cain," 
To  slay  thy  brother  Abel,  if  thou  wilt. 

Glo.  I  will  not  slay  thee,  but  I  '11  drive  thee 
back  : 
Thy  scarlet  robes,  as  a  child's  bearing-cloth 
I  'II  use,  to  carry  thee  out  of  this  place. 

Win.  Do  what  thou  dar'st ;  I  beard  thee  to  thy 
face. 


ACT    I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENK    IV. 


Glo.  "What?  am  I  dar'd,  and  bearded  to  my 
face  ? 
Draw,  men,  for  all  this  privileged  place ; 
Blue-coats  to  tawny-coats.     Priest,  beware  your 
beard ; 
[Glo.  and  his  Men  attack  the  Bishop. 
[  mean  to  tug  it,  and  to  cufF  you  soundly : 
Under  my  feet  I  stamp  thy  cardinal's  hat ; 
In  spite  of  Pope  or  dignities  of  church, 
Here  by  the  cheeks  I  '11  drag  thee  up  and  down. 
Win.    Gloster,  thou  'It  answer  this  before  the 

Pope. 
Glo.  Winchester  goose,  I  cry — a  rope !  a  rope ! — 
Now  beat  them  hence.  Why  do  you  let  them  stay ! — 
Thee  I  '11  chase  hence,  thou  wolf  in  sheep's  array. — 
Out,  tawny  coats ! — out,  scarlet  hypocrite  ! 

Here  a  great  Tumult.     In  the  midst  of  it.  Enter 
the  Mayor  of  London,  and  Officers. 

May.  Fye,  lords !  that  you,  being  supreme  ma- 
gistrates, 
Thus  contumeliously  should  break  the  peace ! 

Olo.  Peace,  mayor ;  thou  know'st  little  of  my 
wrongs ; 
Here 's  Beaufort,  that  regards  nor  God  nor  king. 
Hath  here  distrain'd  the  Tower  to  his  use. 

Win.  Here  's  Gloster  too,  a  foe  to  citizens ; 
One  that  still  motions  war,  and  never  peace, 
O'ercharging  your  free  purses  with  large  fines ; 
That  seeks  to  overthrow  religion, 
Because  he  is  protector  of  the  realm  ; 
And  would  have  armour  here  out  of  the  Tower, 
To  crown  himself  king,  and  suppress  the  prince. 

Olo.    I  will  not  answer  thee  with   words,  but 
blows.  l^Here  they  skirmish  again. 

May.  Nought  rests  for  me,  in  this  tumultuous 
strife, 
But  to  make  open  proclamation  : — 
Come,  officer ;  as  loud  as  e'er  thou  canst. 

Off.  "  All  manner  of  men,  assembled  here  in 
arms  this  day,  against  God's  peace  and  the  king's, 
we  charge  and  command  you,  in  his  highness' 
name,  to  repair  to  your  several  dwelling-places ; 
and  not  to  wear,  handle,  or  use,  any  sword, 
weapon,  ©r  dagger,  henceforward,  upon  pain  of 
death." 

Glo.  Cardinal,  I  '11  be  no  breaker  of  the  law- : 
But  we  shall  meet,  and  break  our  minds  at  large. 

Win.  Gloster,  we  '11  meet ;  to  thy  dear  cost,  be 
sure : 
Thy  heart-blood  I  will  have,  for  this  day's  work. 

May   I  '11  call  for  clubs,  if  you  will  not  away : — 


This  cardinal  is  more  haughty  than  the  devil. 
Glo.  Mayor,  farewell :  thou  dost  but  what  thou 

may'st. 
Win.  Abominable  Gloster  !  guard  thy  head  ; 
For  I  intend  to  have  it,  ere  long."  [^Exeunt. 

May.  See  the  coast  clear'd,  and  then  we  will 
depart. — 
Good  God  !  that  nobles  should  such  stomachs 

bear  ! 
I  myself  fight  not  once  in  forty  year.        [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— France.     Before  Orleans. 

Enter,  on   the    Walls,   the  Master  Gunner  and 
his  Son. 

M.  Gun.  Sirrah,  thou  know'st  how  Orleans  is 
beSieg'd ; 
And  how  the  English  have  the  suburbs  won. 

Son.    Father,  I  know ;   and   oft  have  shot  at 
them,  0 

Howe'er,  unfortunate,  I  miss'd  my  aim. 

M.  Gun.  But  now  thou  shalt  not.     Be  thou 
rul'd  by  me : 
Chief  masterTgunner  am  I  of  this  town ; 
Something  I  must  do,  to  procure  me  grace. 
The  prince's  espials  have  informed  me. 
How  the  English,  in  the  suburbs  close  intrench'd, 
Wont,  through  a  secret  grate  of  iron  bars    * 
In  yonder  tower^  to  overpeer  the  city ; 
And  thence  discover,  how,  with  most  advantage, 
They  may  vex  us,  with  shot,  or  with  assault. 
To  intercept  this  inconvenience, 
A  piece  of  ordnance  'gainst  it  I  have  plac'd ; 
And  fully  even  these  three  days  have  I  watch'd, 
If  I  could  see  them.     Now,  boy,  do  thou  watch, 
For  I  can  stay  no  longer. 
If  thou  spy'st  any,  run  and  bring  me  word ; 
And  thou  shalt  find  me  at  the  governor's.    [Exit. 

Son.  Father,  I  warrant  you ;  take  you  no  care; 
I  '11  never  trouble  you,  if  I  may  spy  them. 

Enter,  in  an  upper  Chamber  of  a  Tower,  the  Lords 
Salisbury  and  Talbot,  Sir  William  Glans- 
DALE,  Sir  Thomas  Gargrave,  and  Others. 

Sal.  Talbot,  my  life,  my  joy,  again  return'd ! 
How  wert  thou  handled,  being  prisoner  ? 
Or  by  what  means  got'st  thou  to  be  releas'd  ? 
Discourse,  I  pr'ythee,  on  this  turret's  top. 

Tal.  The  duke  of  Bedford  had  a  prisoner, 
Called — the  brave  lord  Ponton  de  Santrailles 
For  him  I  was  exchang'd  and  ransomed. 
But  with  a  baser  man  of  arms  by  far, 

869 


ACT   I. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCSKB  V. 


Once,  in  contempt,  they  would  have  barter'd  me : 
Which  I,  disdaining,  scorn'd  ;  and  craved  death 
Rather  than  I  would  be  so  pil'd  esteem'd.'^ 
Tn  fine,  redeem'd  I  was  as  I  desir'd. 
T3nt,  0 !  the  treacherous  Fastolfe  wounds  my  heart ! 
Whom  with  my  bare  fists  I  would  execute, 
If  T  now  had  him  brought  into  my  power. 

Sal.  Yet  tell'st  thou  not,  how  thou  wert  enter- 
tain'd. 

Tal.  With  scoffs,  and  scorns,  and  contumelious 
taunts. 
In  open  market-place  produc'd  they  me, 
To  be  a  public  spectacle  to  all ; 
Here,  said  they,  is  the  terror  of  the  French, 
The  scare-crow  that  affrights  our  children  so. 
Then  broke  I  from  the  oflBcers  that  led  me; 
And  with  my  nails  digg'd  stones  out  of  the  ground. 
To  hurl  at  the  beholders  of  my  shame. 
My  grisly  countenance  made  others  fly  ; 
None  durst  come  near  for  fear  of  sudden  death. 
In  iron  walls  they  dl^m'd  me  not  secure ; 
So  great  fear  of   my  name  'mongst   them   was 

spread. 
That  they  suppos'd  I  could  rend  bars  of  steel. 
And  spurn  in  pieces  posts  of  adamant : 
Wherefore  a  guard  of  chosen  shot  I  had. 
That  walk'd  about  me  every  minute-while ; 
And  if  I  did  but  stir  out  of  my  bed. 
Ready  they  were  to  shoot  me  to  the  heart. 

Sal.    I  grieve  to  hear  what  torments  you  en- 
dur'd  ; 
But  we  will  be  reveng'd  suflSciently. 
Now  it  is  supper-time  in  Orleans : 
Here,  thorough  this  grate,  I  count  each  one. 
And  view  the  Frenchmen  how  they  fortify ; 
Let  us  look  in,  the  sight  will  much  delight  thee. — 
Sir  Thomas  Gargrave,  and  sir  William  Glansdale, 
Let  me  have  your  express  opinions, 
Where  is  best  place  to  make  our  battery  next. 

Oar.  I  think,  at  the  north  gate ;  for  there  stand 
lords. 

Glan.  And  I,  here,  at  the  bulwark  of  the  bridge. 

Tal.  For  aught  I  see,  this  city  must  be  famish'd, 
^r  with  light  skirmishes  enfeebled. 

[Shot  from  the  Town.     QA.h.and  Gar.  fall. 

Sal.    0  Lord,  have   mercy  on   us,  wretched 
sinners ! 

Gar.  0  Lord,  have  mercy  on  me,  woeful  man ! 

Tal.  What  chance  is  this,  that  Suddenly  hath 
cross'd  us  ? — 
Speak,  Salisbury  ;  at  least,  if  thou  canst  speak ; 
How  far'st  thou,  mirror  of  all  martial  men  ? 
870 


One  of  thy  eyes,  and  thy  cheek's  side  struck  off! — 
Accursed  tower  !  accursed  fatal  hand. 
That  hath  contriv'd  this  woeful  tragedy  ! 
In  thirteen  battles  Salisbui'y  o'ercame  ; 
Henry  the  Fifth  he  first  train'd  to  the  wars ; 
Whilst  any  trump  did  sound,  or  drum  struck  up, 
His  sword  did  ne'er  leave  striking  in  the  field. — 
Yet  liv'st  thou,  Salisbury  ?  though  thy  speech  doth 

fail. 
One  eye  thou  hast,  to  look  to  heaven  for  grace : 
The  sun  with  one  eye  viewetli  all  the  world. — 
Heaven,  be  thou  gracious  to  none  alive,        \ 
If  Salisbury  wants  mercy  a*t  thy  hands  ! — 
Bear  hence  his  body,  I  will  help  to  bury  it. — 
Sir  Thomas  Gargrave,  hast  thou  any  life  ? 
Speak  unto  Talbot ;  nay,  look  up  to  him. 
Salisbuiy,  cheer  thy  spirit  with  this  comfort ; 

Thou  shalt  not  die,  whiles 

He  beckons  with  his  hand,  and  smiles  on  me ; 
As  who  should  say,  "  When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
Remember  to  avenge  me  on  the  French. — " 
Plantagenet,  I  will;  and  Nero-like, 
Play  on  the  lute,  beholding  the  towns  burn : 
Wretched  shall  France  be  only  in  my  name. 

[Thunder  heard  ;  afterwards  an  Alarum. 
What   stir   is    this  ?      What    tumult    's   in    the 

heavens  ? 
Whence  cometh  this  alarum,  and  the  noise  ? 

JEnter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.    My   lord,   my  lord,    the   French   have 
gather'd  head : 
The  Dauphin,  with  one  Joan  la  Pucelle  join'd, — 
A  holy  prophetess,  new  risen  up, — 
Is  come  with  a  great  power  to  raise  the  siege. 

[Sal.  groans. 
Tal.    Hear,  hear,  how  dying  Salisbury  doth 


groan 


It  irks  his  heart,  he  cannot  be  reveng'd. — 
Frenchmen,  I  '11  be  a  Salisbury  to  you  : — 
Pucelle  or  puzzel,  dolphin  or  dogfish, 
Your  hearts  I  '11  stamp  out  with  my  horse's  heels, 
And  make  a  quagmire  of  your  mingled  brains. — 
Convey  me  Salisbury  into  his  tent. 
And  then  we  '11  try  what  these  dastard  Frenchmen 
dare.     [Exeunt,  hearing  out  the  Bodies. 

SCENE  Y.—  The  Same.    Before  one  of  the  Gates. 

Alarum.  Skirmishings.  Talbot  pursueth  the 
Dauphin,  and  driveth  him  in :  then  enter  Joan 
LA  Pucelle,  driving  Englishmen  before  her. 
Then  enter  Talbot. 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    VI. 


I'al.  Where  is  my  strength,  my  valour,  and  my 
force  ? 
Our  English  troops  retire,  I  cannot  stay  them  ; 
A  woman,  clad  in  armour,  chaseth  them. 

Enter  La  Pucklle. 

Here,  here  she  comes : 1  '11  have  a  bout  with 

thee; 
Devil,  or  devil's  dam,  I  '11  conjure  thee : 
Blood  will  I  draw  on  thee,  thou  art  a  witch, '^ 
And  straightway  give  thy  soul  to  him  thou  serv'st. 
Puc.  Come,  come,  't  is  only  I  that  must  dis- 
grace thee.  [  They  Jigh  t. 
Tal.  Heavens,  can  you  suffer  hell  so  to  prevail  ? 
My  breast  I  '11  burst  with  straining  of  my  courage. 
And  from  my  shoulders  crack  my  arms  asunder. 
But  I  will  chastise  this  high-minded  strumpet. 
Puc.    Talbot,  farewell ;    thy  hour  is   not  yet 
come : 
I  must  go  victual  Orleans  forthwith. 
O'ertake  me,  if  thou  canst ;  I  scorn  thy  strength. 
Go,  go,  cheer  up  thy  hunger-starved  men ; 
Help  Salisbury  lo  make  his  testament : 
This  day  is  ours,  as  many  more  shall  be. 

[Puc.  enters  the  Town,  with  Soldiers. 
Tal.  My  thoughts  are  whirled  like  a  potter's 
wheel ; 
I  know  not  where  I  am,  nor  what  I  do  : 
A  witch,  by  fear,  not  force,  like  Hannibal, 
Drives  back  our  troops,  and  conquers  as  she  lists  : 
So   bees  with   smoke,   and  doves   with   noisome 

stench. 
Are  from  their  hives,  and  houses,  driven  away. 
They  call'd  us,  for  our  fierceness,  English  dogs ; 
Now,  like  to  whelps,  we  crying  run  away. 

\A  short  Alarum. 
Harkj  countrymen  !  either  renew  the  fight. 
Or  tear  the  lions  out  of  England's  coat ; 
Renounce  your  soil,  give  sheep  in  lion's  stead : 
Sheep  run  not  half  so  timorous  from  the  wolf. 
Or  horse,  or  oxen,  from  the  leopard, 
As  you  fly  from  your  oft-subdued  slaves. 

\Alarum.     Another  skirmish. 
It  will  not  be  : — Retire  into  your  trenches  : 
You  all  consented  unto  Salisbury's  death, 
For  none  would  strike  a  stroke  in  his  revenge. — 


Pucelle  is  enter'd  into  Orleans, 

In  spite  of  us,  or  aught  that  we  could  do. 

O,  would  I  were  to  die  with  Salisbury  ! 

The  shame  hereof  will  make  me  hide  my  head. 

\Alarum.  Retreat.  Exeunt  Tal.  and  his  Forces,  etc 

SCENE  YL— The  Same. 

Enter  on  the  Walls,  Pucelle,  Charles,  Reig- 
NiER,  ALENfON,  and  Soldiers. 

Puc.  Advance  our  waving  colours  on  the  walls  ; 
Rescu'd  is  Orleans  from  the  Englisli  wolves  : 
Thus  Joan  la  Pucelle  hath  perform'd  her  word. 

Char.  Divinest  creature,  bright  Astreea's  daugh- 
ter, 
How  shall  I  honour  tliee  for  this  success  ? 
Thy  promises^re  like  Adonis'  gardens, 
That  one  day  bloom'd,  and  fruitful  were  the  next. — 
France,  triumph  in  thy  glorious  prophetess ! — 
Recover'd  is  the  town  of  Orleans  : 
More  blessed  hap  did  ne'er  befal  our  state. 

Beig.  Why  ring  not  out  the  bells  throughout 
the  town  ? 
Dauphin,  command  the  citizens  make  bonfires. 
And  feast  and'banquet  in  the  open  streets, 
To  celebrate  the  joy  that  God  hath  given  us. 

Alen.  All   Franco  will  be   replete  with   mirth 
and  joy, 
When  they  shall  hear  how  we  have  play'd  the  men. 

Char.  'T  is  Joan,  not  we,  by  whom  the  day  is 
won  ; 
For  which,  I  will  divide  my  crown  with  her : 
And  all  the  priests  and  friars  in  my  realm 
Shall,  in  procession,  sing  her  endless  praise. 
A  statelier  pyramis  to  her  I  '11  rear, 
Than  Rhodope's,  or  Memphis',  ever  was  :*" 
In  memory  of  her,  when  she  is  dead. 
Her  ashes,  in  an  urn  more  precious 
Than  the  rich-jewel'd  coffer  of  Darius,^' 
Transported  shall  be  at  high  festivals 
Before  the  kings  and  queens  of  France. 
No  longer  on  Saint  Dennis  will  we  cry. 
But  Joan  la  Pucelle  shall  be  France's  saint. 
Come  in ;  and  let  us  banquet  royally, 
After  this  golden  day  of  victory. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt 
871 


ACT  n. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SOENB    I. 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I— The  Same. 

Enter  to  the  Gates,  a  French  Sergeant,  and  Two 
Sentinels. 

Serff.  Sirs,  take  your  piaces,  and  be  vigilant : 
If  any  noise,  or  soldier,  you  perceive, 
Near  to  the  walls,  by  some  apparent  sign, 
Let  us  have  knowledge  at  the  court  of  guard. 

l5i  >Seft^  Sergeant,  you  shall.  [JSxitSerg.']  Thus 
are  poor  servitors 
(When  others  sleep  upon  their  quie|  beds,) 
Constrain'd  to  watch  in  darkness,  rain,  and  cold. 

^nter  Talbot,  Bedford,  Burgundy,  and  Forces, 
with  scaling  Ladders  ;  their  Drums  beating  a 
dead  March. 

Tal.  Lord  regent, — and  redoubted  Burgundy, — 
By  whose  approach,  the  regions  of  Artois, 
Walloon,  and  Picardy,  are  friends  t6  us, — 
This  happy  night  the  Frenchmen  are  secure, 
Having  all  day  carous'd  and  banqueted  : 
Embrace  we  then  this  opportunity  ; 
As  fitting  best  to  quittance  their  deceit, 
Contriv'd  by  art,  and  baleful  sorcery. 

Bed.  Coward  of  France ! — how  much  he  wrongs 
his  fame. 
Despairing  of  his  own  arm's  fortitude, 
To  join  with  witches,  and  the  help  of  hell. 

Bur.  Traitors  have  never  other  company. — 
But  what 's  that  Pucelle,  whom  they  term  so  pure? 

Tal.  A  maid,  they  say. 

Bed.  A  maid  !  and  be  so  martial ! 

Bur.  Pray  God,  she  prove  not  masculine  ere 
long; 
If  underneath  the  standard  of  the  French, 
She  carry  armour,  as  she  hath  begun. 

Tal.  Well,  let  them  practise  and  converse  with 
spirits : 
God  is  our  fortress ;  in  whose  conquering  name, 
Let  us  resolve  to  scale  their  flinty  bulwarks. 

Bed.    Ascend,  brave  Talbot ;  we  will  follow 
thee. 

Tal.  Not  all  together :  better  far,  I  guess, 
Thai  we  do  make  our  entrance  several  ways ; 
That,  if  it  chance  the  one  of  us  do  fail. 
The  other  yet  may  rise  against  their  force. 
872 


Bed.  Agreed  ;  I  '11  to  yon  comer. 
Bur.  And  I  to  thia 

Tal.  And  here  will  Talbot  mount,  or  make  his 
grave. — 
Now,  Salisbury !  for  thee,  and  for  the  right 
Of  English  Henry,  shall  this  night  appear 
How  much  in  duty  I  am  bound  to  both. 
[The  English  scale  the  Walls,  crying  St.  George  ! 

A  Talbot !  and  all  enter  by  the  Town. 
Sent.    [Within.^    Arm,  arm  1  the  enemy  doth 
make  assault ! 

The  French  leap  over  the  Walls  in  their  Shirts. 
Unter,  several  ways,  Bastard,  Alenjon,  Reig- 
NiER,  half  ready,  and  half  unready. 

Alen.  How  now,  my  lords  ?  what,  all  unready 

so? 
Bast.  Unready  ?  ay,  and  glad  we  'scap'd  so  well. 
Reig.  'T  was  time,  I  trow,  to  wake  and  leave 
our  beds. 
Hearing  alarums  at  our  chamber  doors. 

Alen.  Of  all  exploits,  since  first  I  follow'd  arms. 
Ne'er  heard  I  of  a  warlike  enterprise 
More  venturous,  or  desperate  than  this. 

Bast.  I  think,  this  Talbot  be  a  fiend  of  hell. 
Reig.    If  not  of  hell,  the  heavens,  sure,  favour 

him. 
Alen.  Here  cometh  Charles  ;  I  marvel,  how  he 
sped. 

Enter  Charles  and  L\  Pucelle. 

Bast.  Tut !  holy  Joan  was  his  defensive  guard. 

Char.  Is  this  thy  cunning,  thou  deceitful  dame  ? 
Didst  thou  at  first,  to  flatter  us  withal. 
Make  us  partakers  of  a  little  gain. 
That  now  our  loss  might  be  ten* times  so  much  ? 

Puc.  Wherefore  is  Charles  impatient  with  his 
friend  ? 
At  all  times  will  you  have  my  power  alike  ? 
Sleeping,  or  waking,  must  I  still  prevail. 
Or  will  you  blame  and  lay  the  fault  on  me  ? — 
Improvident  soldiers  !  had  your  watch  been  good, 
This  sudden  mischief  never  could  liave  fall'n. 

Char.  Duke  of  Alen<jon,  this  was  your  default ; 
That,  being  captain  of  the  watch  to-night. 
Did  look  no  better  to  that  weighty  charge. 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENB   11. 


Alen.  Had  all  your  quarters  been  as  safely  kept, 
As  that  whereof  I  had  the  government, 
We  had  not  been  thus  shamefully  surpris'd. 

Bast.  Mine  was  secure. 

Heiff.  And  so  was  mine,  my  lord. 

Ckar.    And,  for  myself,  most  part  of  all  this 
night, 
Within  her  quarter,  and  mine  own  precinct, 
I  was  employ'd  in  passing  to  and  fro, 
About  relieving  of  the  sentinels  : 
Then    how,    or   which    way,    should    they   first 
break  in  ? 

Puc.  Question,  my  lords,  no  further  of  the  case, 
How,  or  which  way  ;  't  is  sure,  they  found  some 

place 
But  weakly  guarded,  where  the  breach  was  made. 
And  now  there  rests  no  other  shift  but  this, — 
To  gather  our  soldiei-s,  scatter'd  and  dispers'd. 
And  lay  new  platforms  to  endamage  them. 

Alarum.  Enter  an  English  Soldier,  crying.,  A 
Talbot!  A  Talbot!  They  fly,  leaving  their 
Clothes  behind. 

Sold.    I  '11  be  so  bold  to  take  what  they  have 
left. 
The  cry  of  Talbot  serves  me  for  a  sword ; 
For  I  have  loaden  me  with  many  spoils, 
Using  no  other  weapon  but  his  name.  \Exit. 

SCENE  II.— Orleans.      Within  the  Town. 

Enter  Talbot,  Bedford,  Burgundy,  a  Captain, 
and  Others. 

Bed.  The  day  begins  to  break,  and  night  is  fled. 
Whose  pitchy  mantle  over-veil'd  the  earth. 
Here  sound  retreat,  and  cease  our  hot  pursuit. 

[^Retreat  sounded. 

Tal.  Bring  forth  the  body  of  old  Salisbury  ; 
And  here  advance  it  in  the  market-place, 
The  middle  centre  of  this  cursed  town. — 
Now  have  I  paid  my  vow  unto  his  soul ; 
For  every  drop  of  blood  was  drawn  from  him. 
There  hath  at  least  five  Frenchmen  died  to-night. 
And,  that  hereafter  ages  may  behold 
What  ruin  happen'd  in  revenge  of  him. 
Within  their  chiefest  temple  I  '11  erect 
A  tomb,  wherein  his  corpse  shall  be  interr'd : 
Upon  the  which,  that  every  one  may  read, 
Shall  be  engrav'd  the  sack  of  Orleans  ; 
The  treacherous  manner  of  his  mournful  death, 
And  what  a  terror  he  had  been  to  France. 
But,  lords,  in  all  our  bloody  massacre, 

110 


I  muse,  we  met  not  with  the  Dauphin's  grace* 
His  new-come  champion,  virtuous  Joan  of  Arc; 
Nor  any  of  his  false  confederates. 

Bed.  'T  is  thought,  lord  Talbot,  when  the  fight 
began, 
Rous'd  on  the  sudden  from  their  drowsy  beds, 
They  did,  amongst  the  troops  of  armed  men, 
Leap  o'er  the  walls  for  refuge  in  the  field. 

Bur.  Myself  (as  far  as  I  could  well  discern, 
For  smoke,  and  dusky  vapours  of  the  night,) 
Am  sure,  I  scar'd  the  Dauphin,  and  his  trull ; 
When  arm  in  arm  they  both  came  swiftly  running, 
Like  to  a  pair  of  loving  turtle-doves. 
That  could  not  live  asunder  day  or  night. 
After  that  things  are  set  in  order  here, 
We  '11  follow  them  with  all  the  power  we  have. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  All  hail,  my  lords  !  which  of  this  princely 
train 
Call  ye  the  warlike  Talbot,  for  his  acts 
So  much  applauded  through  the  realm  of  France? 

Tal.  Here  is  the  Talbot ;  who  would  speak  with 
him  ? 

Mess.  The  virtuous  lady,  countess  of  Auvergne, 
With  modesty  admiring  thy  renown, 
By  me  entreats,  good  lord,  thou  wouldst  vouch- 
safe 
To  visit  her  poor  castle  where  she  lies ; 
That  she  may  boast,  she  hath  beheld  the  man 
Whose  glory  fills  the  world  with  loud  report. 

Bur.  Is  it  even  so  ?     Nay,  then,  I  see,  our  wars 
Will  turn  unto  a  peaceful  comic  sport. 
When  ladies  crave  to  be  encounter'd  with. — 
You  may  not,  ray  lord,  despise  her  gentle  suit. 

Tal.  Ne'er  trust  me  then  ;  for,  when  a  world  of 
men 
Could  not  prevail  with  all  their  oratory. 
Yet  hath  a  woman's  kindness  over-rul'd  : — 
And  therefore  tell  her,  I  return  great  thanks ; 
And  in  submission  will  attend  on  her. — 
Will  not  your  honours  bear  rne  company  ? 

Bed.  No,  truly  ;  it  is  more  than  manners  will : 
And  I  have  heard  it  said, — Unbidden  guests 
Are  often  welcomest  when  they  are  gone. 

Tal.  Well  then,  alone,  since  there  's  no  reme- 

dy, 
I  mean  to  prove  this  lady's  courtesy. 
Come  hither,  captain.  [  Whispers.l — You  perceive 
my  mind. 
Capt.  I  do,  my  lord ;  and  mean  accor  ilingly. 

[^Exeunt, 
873 


ACT    II. 


FIRST  PAET  OF 


SCEKS    III. 


SCENE  III. — Auyergne.     Court  of  the  Castle. 
Enter  the  Countess  and  her  Porter. 

Count.  Porter,  remember  what  I  gave  in  charge; 
And,  when  you  have  done  so,  bring  the  keys  to  me. 

Port.  Madam,  I  will.  [^Exit. 

Count.  The  plot  is  laid :  if  all  things  fall  out 
right, 
1  shall  as  famous  be  by  this  exploit, 
As  Scythian  Thomyris  by  Cyrus'  death. 
Great  is  the  rumour  of  this  dreadful  knight, 
And  his  achievements  of  no  less  account : 
Fain  would  mine  eyes  be  witness  with  mine  ears, 
To  give  their  censure  of  these  rare  reports. 

Enter  Messenger  and  Talbot. 

Mess.  Madam, 
According  as  your  ladyship  desir'd, 
By  message  crav'd,  so  is  lord  Talbot  come. 

Count.  And  he  is  welcome.     What !  is  this  the 
man  ? 

Mess.  Madam,  it  is. 

Count.  Is  this  the  scourge  of  France  ? 

Is  this  the  Talbot,  so  much  fear'd  abroad. 
That  with  his  name  the  mothers  still  their  babes? 
[  see,  report  is  fabulous  and  false : 
I  thought,  I  should  have  seen  some  Hercules, 
A  second  Hector,  for  his  grim  aspect, 
And  large  proportion  of  his  strong-knit  limbs. 
Alas !  this  is  a  child,  a  silly  dwarf: 
It  cannot  be,  this  weak  and  writhled  shrimp 
Should  strike  such  terror  to  his  enemies. 

Tal.  Madam,  I  have  been  bold  to  trouble  you : 
But,  since  your  ladyship  is  not  at  leisure, 
I  '11  sort  some  other  time  to  visit  you. 

Count.    What  means  he  now  ? — Go  ask  him 
whither  he  goes. 

Mess.    Stay,    my    lord    Talbot ;    for    my    lady 
craves 
To  know  the  cause  of  your  abrupt  departure. 

Tal.  Marry,  for  that  she  's  in  a  wrong  belief, 
I  go  to  certify  her,  Talbot 's  here. 

Re-enter  Porter,  with  Keys. 

Count.  If  thou  be  he,  then  art  thou  prisoner. 

Tal.  Prisoner !  to  whom  ? 

Count.  To  me,  blood-thirsty  lord ; 

And  for  that  cause  I  train'd  thee  to  my  house. 
Long  time  thy  shadow  hath  been  thiall  to  me. 
For  in  my  gallery  thy  picture  hangs : 
But  now  the  substance  shall  endure  the  like ; 
874 


And  I  will  chain  these  legs  and  arms  of  thme, 
That  hast  by  tyranny,  these  many  years, 
Wasted  our  country,  slain  our  citizens, 
And  sent  our  sons  and  husbands  captivate. 

Tal.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Count.  Laughest  thou,  wretch  ?  thy  mirth  shall 
turn  to  moan. 

Tal.  I  laugh  to  see  your  ladyship  so  fond. 
To  think  that  you  have  aught  but  Talbot's  shadow. 
Whereon  to  practise  your  severity. 

Count.  Why,  art  not  thou  the  man  ? 

Tal.  I  am  indeed. 

Count.  Then  have  I  substance  too. 

Tal.  No,  no,  I  am  but  shadow  of  myself: 
You  are  deceiv'd,  my  substance  is  not  here ; 
For  what  you  see,  is  but  the  smallest  part 
And  least  proportion  of  humanity  : 
I  tell  you,  madam,  were  the  whole  frame  hare, 
It  is  of  such  a  spacious  lofty  pitch. 
Your  roof  were  not  sufficient  to  contain  it. 

Count.  This   is   a   riddling  merchant  far  the 
nonce ; 
He  will  be  here,  and  yet  he  is  not  here: 
IIow  can  these  contrarieties  asree  ? 

o 

Tal.  That  will  I  show  you  presently. 

He  loinds  a  Hm'n.     Drums  heard  ;  then  a  Peal  of 
Ordnance.     The  Gates  being  forced,  enter  Soldiers. 

Hov/  say  you,  madam  ?  are  you  now  persuaded, 
That  Talbot  is  but  shadow  of  himself? 
These  are  his  substance,  sinews,  arms,  and  strength, 
With  which  he  yoketh  your  rebellious  necks ; 
Razeth  your  cities,  and  subverts  your  towns, 
And  in  a  moment  makes  them  desolate. 

Count.  Victorious  Talbot !  pardon  my  abuse : 
I  find,  thou  art  no  less  than  fame  hath  bruited, 
And  more  than  may  be  gather'd  by  thy  shape. 
Let  my  presumption  not  provoke  thy  wrath ; 
For  I  am  sorry,  that  with  reverence 
I  did  not  entertain  thee  as  thou  art. 

Tal.  Be  not  dismay'd,  tair  lady  ;  nor  misconstrue 
The  mind  of  Talbot,  as  you  did  mistake 
The  outward  composition  of  his  body. 
What  you  have  done,  hath  not  offended  me : 
No  other  satisfaction  do  I  crave. 
But  only  (with  your  patience,)  that  we  may 
Taste  of  your  wine,  and  see  what  cates  you  have 
For  soldiers'  stomachs  always  serve  them  well. 

Count.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  think  me  hon- 
noured 
To  feast  so  great  a  warrior  in  my  house. 

[Exeunt. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    IV. 


SCENE  IV.— London.     The  Temple  Garden. 

Enter  the  Earls  of  Somerset,  Suffolk,  and 
Warwick;  Richard  Plantagenet,  Vernon, 
and  another  Lawyer. 

Plan.  Great  lords,  and  gentlemen,  what  means 
this  silence  ? 
Dare  no  man  answer  in  a  case  of  truth  ? 

Suf.  Within  the  Temple  hall  we  were  too  loud  ; 
The  garden  here  is  more  convenient. 

Plan.  Then  say  at  once,  If'  I  maintain'd  the 
ti'Uth ; 
Or,  else,  was  wrangling  Somerset  in  the  error  ?*^ 

Suf.  'Faith,  I  have  been  a  truant  in  the  law ; 
And  never  yet  could  frame  my  will  to  it ; 
And,  therefore,  frame  the  law  unto  my  will. 

Som.  Judge  you,  my  lord  of  Warwick,  then  be- 
tween us. 

War.  Between  two  hawks,  which  flies  the  higher 
pitch. 
Between  two  dogs,  which  hath  the  deeper  mouth, 
Between  two  blades,  which  bears  the  better  temper, 
Between  two  horses,  which  doth  bear  him  best. 
Between  two  girls,  which  hath  the  meri'iest  eye, 
I  have,  perhaps,  some  shallow  spirit  of  judgment: 
But  in  these  nice  sharp  quillets  of  the  law, 
Good  faith,  I  am  no  wiser  than  a  daw. 

Plan.  Tut,  tut,  here  is  a  mannerly  forbearance : 
The  truth  appears  so  naked  on  my  side, 
That  any  purblind  eye  may  find  it  out. 

Sovi.  And  on  my  side  it  is  so  well  apparell'd, 
So  clear,  so  shining,  and  so  evident. 
That  it  will  glimmer  through  a  blind  man's  eye. 

Plan.  Since  you  ai'C  tongue-ty'd,  and  so  loath 
to  speak. 
In  dumb  significants  proclaim  your  thoughts  : 
Let  him,  that  is  a  true-born  gentleman, 
And  stands  upon  the  honour  of  his  birth, 
If  he  suppose  that  I  have  pleaded  truth, 
'  From  off  this  brier  pluck  a  white  rose  with  me. 

Som.  Let  him  that  is  no  coward,  nor  no  flatterer, 
But  dare  maintain  the  party  of  the  truth, 
Pluck  a  red  rose  from  off  this  thorn  with  me. 

War.  I  love  no  colours ;  and,  without  all  colour 
Of  base  insinuating  flatterj^ 
I  pluck  this  white  rose,  with  Plantagenet. 

Suf.  I  pluck  this  red  rose,  with  young  Somerset ; 
And  say  withal,  I  think  he  held  the  right. 

Ver.  Stay,  lords,  and  gentlemen  ;  and  pluck  no 
more, 
rill  you  conclude, — that  he,  upon  whose  side 


The  fewest  roses  are  cropp'd  fi'om  the  tree, 
Shall  yield  the  other  in  the  right  opinion. 

Som.  Good  master  Vernon,  it  is  well  objected ; 
If  I  have  fewest,  I  subscribe  in  silence. 

Plan.  And  I. 

Ver.  Then,  for  the  truth  and  plainness  of  the 
case, 
I  pluck  this  pale,  and  maiden  blossom  here. 
Giving  my  verdict  on  the  white  rose  side. 

Som.  Prick  not  your  finger  as  you  pluck  it  off, 
Lest,  bleeding,  you  do  paint  the  white  rose  red, 
And  fall  on  my  side  so  against  your  will. 

Ver.  If  I,  my  lord,  for  my  opinion  bleed. 
Opinion  shall  be  surgeon  to  my  hurt. 
And  keep  me  on  the  side  where  still  I  am, 

Som.  Well,  well,  come  on  :  Who  else  ? 

Law.  Unless  my  study  and  my  books  be  false. 
The  argument  you  held,  was  wrong  in  you ; 

[To  Som. 
In  sign  whereof,  I  pluck  a  white  rose  too. 

Plan.  Now,  Somerset,  where  is  your  argument  ? 

Som.  Here,  in  my  scabbard  ;  meditating  that, 
Shall  die  your  white  rose  in  a  bloody  red. 

Plan.  Mean  time,  your  cheeks  do  counterfeit 
our  roses ; 
For  pale  they  look  with  fear,  as  witnessing 
The  truth  on  our  side. 

Som.  No,  Plantagenet, 

'T  is  not  for  fear  ;  but  anger, — that  thy  cheeks 
Blush  for  pure  shame,  to  counterfeit  our  roses ; 
And  yet  thy  tongue  will  not  confess  thy  error. 

Plan.  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  canker,  Somerset  ? 

Som.  Hath  not  thy  rose  a  tliorn,  Plantagenet  ? 

Plan.  Av,  sharp  and  piercing,  to  maintain  his 
truth ; 
Whiles  thv  consuming  canker  eats  his  falsehood. 

Som.  Well,  I  '11  find  friends  to  wear  my  bleeding- 
roses. 
That  shall  maintain  what  I  have  said  is  true, 
Where  false  Plantagenet  dare  not  be  seen. 

Plan.  Now,  by  this  maiden  blossom  in  my  hand, 
I  scorn  thee  and  thy  fashion,  peevish  boy. 

Suf  Turn  not  thy  scorns  this  way,  Plantagenet. 

Plan.  Proud  Poole,  I  will;  and  scorn  both  hira 
and  thee. 

Suf  I  '11  turn  my  part  thereof  into  thy  throat. 

Som.  Away,  away,  good  William  De-la-Poole  ! 
We  grace  the  yeoman,  by  conversing  with  him. 

War.  Now,  by  God's  will,  thou  wrong'st  him, 
Somerset ; 
His  grandfather  was  Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence," 
Third  son  to  the  third  Edward  king  of  England; 

87.^ 


ACT   II. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCXNB    V. 


Spring  crestless  yeoman  from  so  deep  a  root  ? 

Plan.  He  bears  him  on  the  placeV privilege, 
Or  durst  not,  for  his  craven  heart,  say  thus. 

Som.  By  him  that  made  me,  I  '11  maintain  my 
words 
On  any  plot  of  ground  in  Christendom : 
Was  not  thy  father,  Richard,  earl  of  Cambridge, 
For  treason  executed  in  our  late  king's  days  ? 
And,  by  his  treason,  stand'st  not  thou  attainted. 
Corrupted,  and  exempt  from  ancient  gentiy  ? 
His  trespass  yet  lives  guilty  in  thy  blood ; 
And,  till  thou  be  restor'd,  thou  art  a  yeoman. 

Plan.  My  father  was  attached,  not  attainted ; 
Condemn'd  to  die  for  treason,  but  no  traitor ; 
And  that  I  '11  prove  on  better  men  than  Somerset, 
Were  growing  time  once  ripen'd  to  my  will. 
For  your  partaker  Poole,  and  you  yourself, 
I  '11  note  you  in  my  book  of  memory. 
To  scourge  you  for  this  apprehension : 
Look  to  it  well ;  and  say  you  are  well  warn'd. 

Som.  Ay,  thou  shalt  find  us  ready  for  thee  still : 
And  know  us,  by  these  colours,  for  thy  foes : 
For  these  my  friends,  in  spite  of  thee,  shall  wear. 

Plan.  And,  by  my  soul,  this  pale  and  angry  rose, 
As  cognizance  of  my  blood-drinking  hate. 
Will  I  for  ever,  and  my  faction,  wear ; 
Until  it  wither  with  me  to  my  grave, 
Or  flourish  to  the  height  of  my  degree. 

Suf.  Go  forward,  and  be  chok'd  with  thy  ambi- 
tion ! 
And  so  farewell,  until  I  meet  thee  next.        \_Exit. 

Som.  Have  with  thee,  Poole. — Farewell,  ambi- 
tious Richard.  [JExit. 

Plan.  How  I  am  brav'd,  and  must  perforce  en- 
dure it! 

War.  This  blot,  that  they  object  against  your 
house. 
Shall  be  wip'd  out  in  the  next  parliament, 
Cail'd  for  the  truce  of  Winchester  and  Gloster : 
And,  if  thou  be  not  then  created  York, 
I  will  not  live  to  be  accounted  Warwick. 
Mean  time,  in  signal  of  my  love  to  thee, 
Against  proud  Somerset,  and  William  Poole, 
Will  I  upon  thy  party  wear  this  rose : 
And  here  I  propliesy, — This  brav^i  to-day. 
Grown  to  this  faction,  in  the  Temple  garden. 
Shall  send,  between  the  red  rose  and  the  white, 
A  thousand  souls  to  death  and  deadly  night. 

Plan.  Good  master  Vernon,  I  am  bound  to  you, 
That  you  on  my  behalf  would  pluck  a  flower. 

Ver.  In  your  behalf  still  will  I  wear  the  same. 

Law.  And  do  will  I. 
a76 


Plan.  Thanks,  gentle  sir. 
Come,  let  us  four  to  dinner :  I  dare  say. 
This  quarrel  will  drink  blood  another  day. 

[Exeuni, 

SCENE  Y.—Tkc  Same.— A  Boom  in  the  Tower. 

Enter  Mortimer,^''  brought  in  a   Chair  hy  Two 
Keepers. 

Mor.  Kind  keepers  of  my  weak  decaying  age, 
Let  dying  Mortimer  here  rest  himself. — 
Even  like  a  man  new  haled  from  the  rack, 
So  fare  my  limbs  with  long  imprisonment : 
And  these  grey  locks,  the  pursuivants  of  death, 
Nestor-like  aged,  in  an  age  of  care. 
Argue  the  end  of  Edmund  Mortimer. 
These    eyes, — like   lamps    whose   wasting    oil   ia 

spent, — 
Wax  dim,  as  drawing  to  their  exigent : 
Weak  shoulders,  overborne  with  burd'ning  grief; 
And  pithless  arms,  like  to  a  wither'd  vine 
That  droops  his  sapless  branches  to  the  ground  : — 
Yet  are  these  feet — whose  strengthless  stay  is  numb 
Unable  to  support  this  lump  of  clay, — 
Swift-winged  with  desire  to  get  a  grave. 
As  witting  I  no  other  comfort  have. — 
But  tell  me,  keeper,  will  my  nephew  come  ? 

\st  Keep.  Richard  Plantagenet,  my  lord,  will 
come : 
W^  sent  unto  the  Temple,  to  his  chamber ; 
And  answer  was  return'd  that  he  will  come. 

Mor.  Enough ;  my  soul  shall  then  be  satisfied. — 
Poor  gentleman  !  his  wrong  doth  equal  mine. 
Since  Henry  Monmouth  first  began  to  reign, 
(Before  whose  glory  I  was  great  in  arms,) 
This  loathsome  sequestration  have  I  had ; 
And  even  since  then  hath  Richard  been  obscur'il, 
Depriv'd  of  honour  and  inheritance : 
But  now,  the  arbitrator  of  despairs. 
Just  death,  kind  umpire  of  men's  miseries, 
With  sweet  enlargement  doth  dismiss  me  hence  • 
I  would,  his  troubles  likewise  were  expir'd. 
That  so  he  might  recover  what  was  lost 

Enter  Richard  Plantagenet. 

\st  Keep.  My  lord,  your  loving  nephew  now  u 

come. 
Mor.  Richard  Plantagenet,  my  friend  ?     Is  he 

come? 
Plan.  Ay,  noble  uncle,  thus  ignobly  us'd, 
Your  nephew,  late-despised  Richard,  comes. 
Mor.  Direct  mine  arms,  I  may  embrace  his  neck, 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENK    V. 


And  in  his  bosom  spend  my  latter  gasp : 
0,  tell  me,  when  my  lips  do  touch  his  cheets, 
That  I  may  kindly  give  one  fainting  kiss. — 
And  now  declare,  sweet  stem  from  York's  great 

stock, 
Why  didst  thou  say — of  late  thou  wert  despis'd  ? 
Plan.  First,  lean  thine  aged  back  against  mine 
arm ; 
And,  in  that  ease,  I  '11  tell  thee  ray  disease. 
This  day,  in  argument  upon  a  case, 
Some  words  there  grew  'twixt  Somerset  and  me : 
Among  which  terms  he  used  his  lavish  tongue. 
And  did  upbraid  me  with  my  father's  death ; 
Which  obloquy  set  bars  before  my  tongue. 
Else  with  the  like  T  had  requited  him : 
Therefore,  good  uncle, — for  my  father's  sake. 
In  honour  of  a  true  Plantagenet, 
And  for  alliance  sake, — declare  the  cause 
My  father,  earl  of  Cambridge,  lost  his  head. 

Mor,  That  cause,  fair  nephew,  that  imprison'd  me. 
And  hath  detain'd  me,  all  my  flow'ring  youth. 
Within  a  loathsome  dungeon,  there  to  pine. 
Was  cursed  instrument  of  his  decease. 

Plan.  Discover  more  at  large  what  cause  that 
was; 
For  I  am  ignorant,  and  cannot  guess. 

Mor.  I  will ;  if  that  my  fading  breath  permit, 
And  death  approach  not  ere  my  tale  be  done. 
Henry  the  Fourth,  grandfather  to  this  king, 
Depos'd  his  nephew  Richard  ;"  Edward's  son, 
The  first -begotten,  and  the  lawful  heir 
Of  Edward  king,  the  third  of  that  descent : 
During  whose  reign,  the  Percys  of  the  north. 
Finding  his  usurpation  most  unjust, 
Endeavour'd  my  advancement  to  the  throne : 
The  reason  mov'd  these  warlike  lords  to  this, 
Was^:— for  that  (young  king  Richard  thus  remov'd. 
Leaving  no  heir  begotten  of  his  body,) 
I  was  the  next  by  birth  and  parentage ; 
For  by  my  mother  I  derived  am 
From  Lionel  duke  of  Clarence,  the  third  son 
To  king  Edward  the  Third,  whereas  he. 
From  John  of  Gaunt  doth  bring  his  pedigree, 
Being  but  fourth  of  that  heroic  line. 
But  mark ;  as,  in  this  haughty  great  attempt, 
They  laboured  to  plant  the  rightful  heir, 
T  lost  my  liberty,  and  they  their  lives. 
Long  after  this,  when  Henry  the  Fifth, — 
Succeeding  his  father  Bolingbroke, — did  reign. 
Thy  father,  earl  of  Cambridge, — then  deriv'd 
From  famous  Edmund  Langley,  duke  of  York, — 


Marrying  my  sister,  that  thy  mother  was, 
Again,  in  pity  of  my  hard  distress. 
Levied  an  army  ;'*  weening  to  redeem, 
And  have  install'd  me  in  the  diadem  : 
But,  as  the  rest,  so  fell  that  noble  earl, 
And  was  beheaded.     Thus  the  Mortimers, 
In  whom  the  title  rested,  were  suppress'd. 

Plan.  Of  which,  my  lord,  your  honour  is  the  hisfc 

Mor.  True ;    and  thou  seest,   that  I  no  issue 
have ; 
And  that  my  fainting  words  do  warrant  death : 
Thou  art  my  heir ;  the  rest,  I  wish  thee  gather : 
But  yet  be  wary  in  thy  studious  care. 

Plan.  Thy  grave  admonishments  prevail  with 
me: 
But  yet,  methinks,  my  father's  execution 
Was  nothing  less  than  bloody  tyranny. 

Mor.  With  silence,  nephew,  be  thou  politic ; 
Strong-fixed  is  the  house  of  Lancaster, 
And,  like  a  mountain,  not  to  be  remov'd. 
But  now  thy  uncle  is  removing  hence ; 
As  princes  do  their  courts,  when  they  are  cloy'd 
With  long  continuance  in  a  settled  place. 

Plan.  O,  uncle,  'would  some  part  of  my  young 
years 
Might  but  redeem  the  passage  of  your  age  ! 

Mor.  Thou  dost  then  wrong  me  ;  as  the  slaugh- 
t'rer  doth. 
Which  giveth  many  wounds,  when  one  will  kill. 
Mourn  not,  except  thou  sorrow  for  my  good ; 
Only,  give  order  for  my  funeral ; 
And  so  farewell ;  and  fair  be  all  thy  hopes  ! 
And  prosperous  be  thy  life,  in  peace,  and  war ! 

Plan.  And  peace,  no  war,  befal  thy  parting 
soul ! 
In  prison  hast  thou  spent  a  pilgrimage. 
And  like  a  hermit  overpass'd  thy  days. — 
Well,  I  will  lock  his  counsel  in  my  breast 
And  what  I  do  imagine,  let  that  rest. — 
Keepers,  convey  him  hence ;  and  I  myself 
Will  see  his  burial  better  than  his  life. — 

[^Exeunt  Keepers,  hearing  out  Mor 
Here  dies  the  dusky  torch  of  Mortimer, 
Chok'd  with  ambition  of  the  meaner  sort : — 
And,  for  those  wrongs,  those  bitter  injuries, 
Which  Somerset  hath  ofi'er'd  to  my  house, — 
I  doubt  not,  but  with  honour  to  redress : 
And  therefore  haste  I  to  the  parliament ; 
Either  to  be  restored  to  my  blood. 
Or  make  my  ill  the  advantage  of  my  good.    \_Ex%i 

877 


ACT  III. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCEieK  X. 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I. — The  Same.     The  Parliament-house. 

Flourish.  Enter  King  Henry,  Exeter,  Gloster, 
Warwick,  Somerset,  and  Suffolk  ;  the  Bishop 
OF  Winchester,  Richard  Plantagenet,  and 
Others.  GhosT^B.  offers  to  put  up  a  Bill ;  Win- 
chester snatches  it,  and  tears  it. 

Win.    Com'st   thou   with    deep    premeditated 
lines, 
With  written  pamphlets  studiously  devis'd, 
Humphrey  of  Gloster  ?  if  thou  canst  accuse, 
Or  aught  intend'st  to  lay  unto  my  charge, 
Do  it  without  invention  suddenly  ; 
As  I  with  sudden  and  extemporal  speech 
Purpose  to  answer  what  thou  canst  object. 

Glo.    Presumptuous   priest !    this  place   com- 
mands my  patience, 
Or  thou  should'st  find  thou  hast  dishonour'd  me. 
Think  not,  although  in  writing  I  preferr'd 
The  manner  of  thy  vile  outrageous  crimes, 
That  therefore  I  have  forg'd,  or  am  not  able 
Verbatim  to  rehearse  the  method  of  my  pen : 
No,  prelate ;  such  is  thy  audacious  wickedness, 
Thjf  lewd,  pestiferous,  and  dissentious  pranks, 
As  very  infants  prattle  of  thy  pride. 
Thou  art  a  most  pernicious  usurer : 
Froward  by  nature,  enemy  to  peace ; 
Lascivious,  wanton,  more  than  well  beseems 
A  man  of  thy  profession,  and  degree  ; 
And  for  thy  treachery.  What  's  more  manifest  ? 
In  that  thou  laid'st  a  trap  to  take  my  life, 
As  well  at  London  bridge,  as  at  the  Tower  ? 
Beside,  I  fear  me,  if  thy  thoughts  were  sifted, 
The  king,  thy  sovereign,  is  not  quite  exempt 
From  envious  malice  of  thy  swelling  heart. 

Win.    Giostei",  I  do  defy  thee. — Lords,  vouch- 
safe 
To  give  me  hearing  what  I  shall  reply. 
If  I  were  covetous,  ambitious,  or  perverse, 
As  he  will  have  me.  How  am  I  so  poor  ? 
Or  how  haps  it,  I  seek  not  to  advance 
Or  raise  myself,  but  keep  my  wonted  calling  ? 
And  for  dissension,  Who  prefeireth  peace 
More  than  I  do, — except  I  be  provok'd  ? 
No,  my  good  lords,  it  is  not  that  offends ; 
It  is  not  that,  that  hath  incens'd  the  duke : 
878 


It  is,  because  no  one  should  sway  but  he ; 
No  one,  but  he,  should  be  about  the  king ; 
And  that  engenders  thunder  in  his  breast, 
And  mal^sps  him  roar  these  accusations  forth. 
But  he  shall  know,  I  am  as  good 

Glo.  As  good  ? 

Thou  bastard  of  my  grandfather  !" — 

Win.    Ay,  lordly  sir  :    For  what   are  you,   I 
pray, 
But  one  imperious  in  another's  throne  ? 

Glo.  Am  I  not  the  protector,  saucy  priest  ? 

Win.  And  am  I  not  a  prelate  of  the  church  ? 

Glo.  Yes,  as  an  outlaw  in  a  castle  keeps, 
And  useth  it  to  patronage  his  theft. 

Win.  Unreverent  Gloster ! 

Glo.  Thou  art  reverent 

Touching  thy  spiritual  function,  not  thy  life. 

Win.  This  Rome  shall  remedy. 

War.  Roam  thither  then. 

Som.  My  lord,  it  were  your  duty  to  forbear. 

War.  Ay,  see  the  bishop  be  not  overborne. 

Som.  Methinks,  my  lord  should  be  religious, 
And  know  the  office  that  belongs  to  such. 

War.    Methinks,  his  lordship  should  be  hum- 
bler ; 
It  fitteth  not  a  prelate  so  to  plead. 

Som.    Yes,  when  his  holy  state  is  touch'd  so 
near. 

War.  State  holy,  or  unhallow'd,  what  of  that  ? 
Is  not  his  grace  protector  to  the  king  ? 

Plan.  Plantagenet,  I  see,  must  hold  his  tongue  ; 
Lest  it  be  said,  "  Speak,  sirrah,  when  you  should 
Must  your  bold  verdict  enter  talk  v/ith  lords  ?" 
Else  would  I  have  a  fling  at  Winchester.    \^Aside. 

K.  Hen.  L^ncles  of  Gloster,  and  of  Winchester, 
The  special  watchmen  of  our  English  weal ; 
I  would  prevail,  if  prayers  might  prevail, 
To  join  your  hearts  in  love  and  amity. 
O,  what  a  scandal  is  i'c  to  our  crown, 
That  two  such  noble  peers  as  ye,  should  jar ! 
Believe  me,  lords,  my  tender  years  can  tell. 
Civil  dissension  is  a  viperous  worm, 
That  gnaws  the  bowels  of  the  commonwealth. — 
[u4  Noise  within;  "Down  with  the  tawny  coats  1" 
What  tumult  's  this  ? 

War.  An  uproar,  I  dare  warrant, 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SOIlfK   I. 


Begun  through  malice  of  the  bishop's  men. 

[A  Noise  again  ;  "  Stones  !  Stones  !" 

Enter  the  Mayor  of  London,  attended. 
May.   0,  my  good  lords, — and  virtuous  Hen- 

Pity  the  city  of  London,  pity  us  ! 

The  bishop  and  the  duke  of  Gloster's  men, 

Forbidden  late  to  carry  any  weapon, 

Have  fiU'd  their  pockets  full  of  pebble-stones; 

And,  banding  themselves  in  contr4.ry  parts. 

Do  pelt  so  fast  at  one  another's  pate, 

That  many  have  their  giddy  brains  knock'd  out : 

Our  w^indows  are  broke  down  in  every  street, 

And  we,  for  fear,  compell'd  to  shut  our  shops. 

Enter,  skirmishing,  the  Retainers  of  Gloster  and 
Winchester,  loith  bloody  pates. 

K.  Hen.  We  charge  you,  on  allegiance  to  our- 
self, 
To  hold  your  slaught'ring  hands,  and  keep  the 

peace. 
Pray,  uncle  Gloster,  mitigate  this  strife. 

\st  Serv.  Nay,  if  we  be 
Forbidden  stones,  we  '11  fall  to  it  with  our  teeth. 
Ind  Serv.  Do  what  ye  dare,  we  are  as  resolute. 

'[Skirmish  again. 
Glo.  You  of  my  household,  leave  this  peevish 
broil, 
And  set  this  unaccustom'd  fight  aside. 

\st  Serv.  My  lord,  we  know  your  grace  to  be 
a  man 
Just  and  upright ;  and,  for  your  royal  birth, 
Inferior  to  none,  but  his  majesty  : 
And,  ere  that  we  will  suffer  such  a  prince, 
So  kind  a  father  of  the  commonweal. 
To  be  disgra'ced  by  an  inkhorn  mate. 
We,  and  our  wives,  and  children,  all  will  fight, 
And  have  our  bodies  slaughter'd  by  thy  foes, 

2nd  Serv.  Ay,  and  the  very  parings  of  our  nails 
Shall  pitch  a  field,  when  we  are  dead. 

[Skirmish  again, 
Glo.  Stay,  stay,  I  say  ! 

And,  if  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do. 
Let  me  persuade  you  to  forbear  a  while. 

K.  Hen.  O,  how  this  discord  doth  afflict  my 
soul ! — 
Can  you,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  behold 
Mv  sip^hs  and  tears,  and  will  not  once  relent  ? 
"^uo  should  be  pitiful,  if  you  be  not? 
Or  who  should  study  to  prefer  a  peace, 
If  holy  churchmen  take  delight  in  broils  ? 


War.  My  lord  protector,  yield  ;~  -yield,  Win- 
chester ; — 
Except  you  mean,  with  obstinate  repulse, 
To  slay  your  sovereign,  and  destroy  the  realm. 
You  see  what  mischief,  and  what  murder  too, 
Hath  been  enacted  through  your  enmity ; 
Then  be  at  peace,  except  ye  thirst  for  blood. 

Win.  He  shall  submit,  or  I  will  never  yield. 

Glo.  Compassion  on  the  king  commands  me 
stoop ; 
Or,  I  would  see  his  heart  out,  ere  the  priest 
Should  ever  get  that  privilege  of  me. 

War.  Behold,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  the  duke 
Hath  banish'd  moody  discontented  fury, 
As  by  his  smoothed  brows  it  doth  appear : 
Why  look  you  still  so  stern,  and  tragical  ? 

Glo.  Here,  Winchester,  I  ofi'er  thee  my  hand. 

K.  Hen,    Fye,   uncle  Beaufort !    I  have  heard 
you  preach. 
That  malice  was  a  great  and  grievous  sin  : 
And  will  not  you  maintain  the  thing  you  teach, 
But  prove  a  chief  offender  in  the  same  ? 

War.  Sweet  king ! — the  bishop  hath  a  kindly 
gird.^^ — 
For  shame,  my  lord  of  Winchester  !  relent; 
What,  shall  a  child  instruct  you  what  to  do  ? 

Win.    Well,  duke  of  Gloster,  I  will  yield  to 
thee ; 
Love  for  thy  love,  and  hand  for  hand  I  give. 

Glo.  Ay  ;  but,  I  fear  me,  with  a  hollow  heart. — 
See  here,  my  friends,  and  loving  countrymen  • 
This  token  serveth  for  a  flag  of  truce, 
Betwixt  ourselves,  and  all  our  followers  : 
So  help  me  God,  as  I  dissemble  not ! 

Win.  So  help  rao  God,  as  I  intend  it  not! 

[Aside 

K.  Hen.  O  loving  uncle,  kind  duke  of  Gloster, 
How  joyful  am  I  made  by  this  contract ! — 
Away,  my  masters  !  trouble  us  no  more  ; 
But  join  in  friendship,  as  your  lords  have  done. 

\st  Serv.  Content ;  I  '11  to  the  surgeon's. 

2nd  Serv.  And  so  will  1 

?jrd  Serv.  And  I  ^ill  see  what  physic  the  tavern 
afibrds.       [Exeunt  Servants,  Mayor,  <S;c. 

War.  Accept  this  scroll,  most  gracious  sove- 
reign ; 
Which  in  the  right  of  Richard  Plantagenet 
We  do  exhibit  to  your  majesty. 

Glo.  Well  urg'd,  my  lord  of  Warwick; — for, 
sweet  prince. 
An  if  your  grace  mark  every  circumstance, 
You  have  great  reason  to  do  Richard  right : 

A'79 


ACT  m. 


FIKST  PART  OF 


BCENK    n. 


Especially,  for  those  occasions 

At  Eltham-place  I  told  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.    And  those  occasions,  uncle,  were  of 
force :     ,. 
Therefore,  my  loving  lords,  our  pleasure  is. 
That  Richard  be  restored  to  his  blood. 

War.  Let  Richard  be  restored  to  his  blood ; 
So  shall  his  father's  wrongs  be  recompens'd. 

Win.  As  will  the  rest,  so  willeth  Winchester. 

K.  Hen.  If  Richard  will  be  true,  not  that  alone. 
But  all  the  whole  inheritance  I  give, 
That  doth  belong  unto  the  house  of  York, 
F^rom  whence  you  spring  by  lineal  descent. 

Plan.  Thy  honour'd  servant  vows  obedience, 
And  humble  service,  till  the  point  of  death. 

K.  Hen.  Stoop  then,  and  set  your  knee  against 
my  foot ; 
And,  in  reguerdon  of  that  duty  done, 
I  girt  thee  with  the  valiant  sword  of  York  : 
Rise,  Richard,  like  a  true  Plantagenet ; 
And  rise  created  princely  duke  of  York. 

Plan.  And  so  thrive  Richard,  as  thy  foes  may 
fall! 
And  as  my  duty  springs,  so  perish  they 
That  grudge  one  thought  against  your  majesty  ! 

AIL    Welcome,  high  prince,  the  mighty  duke 
of  York ! 

Som.  Perish,  base  prince,  ignoble  duke  of  York. 

\Aside. 

Olo.  Now  will  it  best  avail  your  majesty, 
To  cross  the  seas,  and  to  be  crown'd  in  France : 
The  presence  of  a  king  engenders  love 
Amongst  his  subjects,  and  his  loyal  friends ; 
As  it  disanimates  his  enemies. 

K.  Hen.    When  Gloster  says  the  word,  king 
Henry  goes ; 
For  friendly  counsel  cuts  oif  many  foes. 

Glo.  Your  ships  already  are  in  readiness. 

[Exeunt  all  hut  Exe. 

Exe.    Ay,  we  may  march   in  England,  or  in 
France, 
Not  seeing  what  is  likely  to  ensue : 
This  late  dissension,  grown  betwixt  the  peers, 
Burns  under  feigned  ashes  of  forg'd  love, 
And  will  at  last  break  out  into  a  flame : 
As  fester'd  members  rot  but  by  degrees. 
Till  bones,  and  flesh,  and  sinews,  fall  away. 
So  will  this  base  and  envious  discord  breed. 
And  now  I  fear  that  fatal  prophecy. 
Which,  in  the  time  of  Henry,  nam'd  the  Fifth, 
Whs  in  the  mouth  of  every  sucking  babe, — 
Tlijtt  Ut'nry,  born  at  Munniouth,  should  win  all; 
880 


And  Henry,  born  at  Windsor,  should  lose  all : 

Which  is  so  plain,  that  Exeter  doth  wish 

His  days  may  finish  ere  that  hapless  time.    \Exit. 

SCENE  H.— France.     Before  Rouen. 

Enter  La  Pucelle  disguised,  and  Soldiers  dressed 
like  Countrymen,  with  Sacks  upon  their  Backi. 

Puc.    These  are  the  city  gates,  the  gates  of 
Roiien, 
Through  which  our  policy  must  make  a  breach : 
Take  heed,  be  wary  how  you  place  your  words ; 
Talk  like  the  vulgar  sort  of  market  men, 
That  come  to  gather  money  for  their  corn. 
If  we  have  entrance,  (as,  I  hope,  we  shall,) 
And  that  we  find  the  slothful  watch  but  weak, 
I  '11  by  a  sign  give  notice  to  our  friends. 
That  Charles  the  Dauphin  may  encounter  them. 

\st  Sold.  Our  sacks  shall  be  a  mean  to  sack  the 
city. 
And  we  be  lords  and  rulers  over  Roiien ; 
Therefore  we  '11  knock.  [Knocks. 

Guard.  [  Within.^    Qui  est  la  ? 

Puc.  Paisans,  pauvres  gens  de  France : 
Poor  market-folks,  that  come  to  sell  their  corn. 

Guard.  Enter,  go  in ;    the  market  bell  is  rung. 

[Opens  the  Gates. 

Puc.  Now,  Roiien,  I  '11  shake  thy  bulwarks  to 
the  ground.     [Puc,  c&c,  enter  the  City. 

Enter  Charles,  Bastard  of  Orleans,  ALENgoN, 
and  Forces. 

Char.  Saint  Dennis  bless  this  happy  stratagem  1 
And  once  again  we  '11  sleep  secure  in  Roiien. 
Bast.    Here   enter'd  Pucelle,   and  her  practi- 
sants ; 
Now  she  is  there,  how  will  she  specify- 
Where  is  the  best  and  safest  passage  in  ? 

Alen.    By  thrusting  out  a  torch  from  yonder 
tower ; 
Which,  once  discern'd,  shows,  that  her  meaning 

is,— 
No  way  to  that,  for  weakness,  which  she  enter'd." 

Enter  La  Pucelle  on  a  Battlement ;  holding  out 
a  Torch  burning. 

Puc.  Behold,  this  is  the  happy  wedding  torch, 
That  joineth  Roiien  unto  her  countrymen  ; 
But  burning  fatal  to  the  Talbotites. 

Bast.    See,  noble  Charles  1  the  beacon  oi  oar 
friend. 
The  burninii'  torch  in  vonder  turret  stands. 


rti 


ACT   III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE  n. 


Char.  Now  shine  it  like  a  comet  of  revenge, 
A  prophet  to  the  fall  of  all  our  foes  ! 

Alen.    Defer  no  time,  Delays  have  dangerous 
ends ; 
Enter,  and  cry — "  The  Dauphin  !" — presently, 
And  then  do  execution  on  the  watch.  \^They  enter. 

[Alarums.     Enter  Talbot,  and  certain  English. 

Tal.  France,  thou  shalt  rue  this  treason  with  thy 
tears, 
If  Talbot  but  survive  thy  treachery. 
Pucelle,  that  witch,  that  damned  sorceress. 
Hath  wrought  this  hellish  mischief  unawares 
That'hardly  we  escap'd  the  pride  of  France. 

[Exeunt  to  the  Town. 

Alarum :  Excursions.  Enter,  from  the  Town, 
Bedford,  brought  in  sick,  in  a  Chair,  with 
Talbot,  Burgundy,  and  the  English  Forces. 
Then,  enter  on  the  Walls,  La  Pucelle,  Charles, 
Bastard,  Alen^on,  and  Others. 

Puc.  Good  morrow,  gallants  !  want  ye  corn  for 
bread  ? 
I  think,  the  duke  of  Burgundy  will  fast. 
Before  he  '11  buy  again  at  such  a  rate  : 
'T  was  full  of  darnel :  Do  you  like  the  taste  ? 
Bur.  Scoff  on,  vile  fiend,  and  shameless  cour- 
tezan ! 
I  trust,  ere  long,  to  choke  thee  with  thine  own. 
And  make  thee  curse  the  harvest  of  that  corn. 
Char.  Your  grace  may  starve,  perhaps,  before 

that  time. 
Bed.  0,  let  no  words,  but  deeds,  revenge  this 

treason  ! 
Puc.    What  will  you   do,  good  grey-beard  ? 
break  a  lance. 
And  run  a  tilt  at  death  within  a  chair  ? 

Tal.  Foul  fiend  of  France,  and  hag  of  all  de- 
spite, 
Encompass'd  with  thy  lustful  paramours  ! 
Becomes  it  thee  to  taunt  his  valiant  age. 
And  twit  with  cowardice  a  man  half  dead  ? 
Damsel,  1  '11  have  a  bout  with  you  again. 
Or  else  let  Talbot  perish  with  this  shame. 

Ptic.   Are  you  so  hot,  sir  ? — Yet,  Pucelle,  hold 
thy  peace ; 
If  Talbot  do  but  thunder,  rain  will  follow — 

[Tal.  and  the  rest,  consult  together. 
God  speed  the  parliament !    who  shall   be  the 
speaker  ? 
Tal.  Dare  ye  come  forth,  and  meet  us  in  the 

field  ? 
Ill 


Pzic.    Belike,  your  lordship  takes  us  then  for 
fools. 
To  try  if  that  our  own  be  ours,  or  no. 

Tal.  I  speak  not  to  that  railing  Hecatfe, 
But  unto  thee,  Alen^on,  and  the  rest ; 
Will  ye,  like  soldiers,  come  and  fight  it  out  ? 
Alen.  Signior,  no. 

Tal.  Signior,  hang! — base  muleteers  of  France; 
Like  peasant  foot-boys  do  they  keep  the  walls. 
And  dare  not  take  up  arms  like  gentlemen. 

Puc.    Captains,  away  :  let 's  get  us  from  the 
walls ; 
For  Talbot  means  no  goodness,  by  his  looks. — 
God  be  wi'  you,  my  lord  !  we  came,  sir,  but  to  tell 

you 
That  we  are  here. 

[Exeunt  La  Puc,  d:c.,from  the  Walls. 
Tal.  And  there  will  we  be  too,  ere  it  be  long. 
Or  else  reproach  be  Talbot's  greatest  fame ! — 
Vow,  Burgundy,  by  honour  of  thy  house, 
(Prick'd  on  by  public  wrongs,  sustain'd  in  France,) 
Either  to  get  the  town  again,  or  die  : 
And  I, — as  sure  as  English  Henry  lives, 
And  as  his  father  here  was  conqueror ; 
As  sure  as  in  this  late-betrayed  town 
Great  Cceur-de-Lion's  heart  was  buiied  ; 
So  sure  I  swear,  to  get  the  tov/n,  or  die. 

Bur.    My  vows   are  equal  partners  with   thy 

vows. 
Tal.  But,  ere  we  go,  regard  this  dying  prince. 
The  valiant  duke  of  Bedford  : — Come,  my  lord. 
We  will  bestow  you  in  some  better  place. 
Fitter  for  sickness,  and  for  crazy  age. 

Bed.  Lord  Talbot,  do  not  so  dishonour  me  : 
Here  will  I  sit  before  the  walls  of  Roiien, 
And  will  be  partner  of  your  weal,  or  woe. 

Bur.  Courageous  Bedford,  let  us  now  persuade 

you. 
Bed.  Not  to  be  gone  from  hence ;  for  once  J 
read. 
That  stout  Pendragon,  in  his  litter,'"  sick. 
Came  to  the  field,  and  vanquished  his  foes : 
Methinks,  I  should  revive  the  soldiers  hearts. 
Because  I  ever  found  them  as  myself. 

Tal.  Undaunted  spirit  in  a  dying  breast ! — 
Then    be    it    so : — Heavens    keep    old   Beaioro 

safe ! — 
And  now  no  more  ado,  orave  Burgundy 
But  gather  we  our  forces  out  of  hand, 
And  set  upon  our  boasting  enemy. 

[Exeunt  Bur.,  Tal.,  and  Forces,  leaving  Bkd.^ 
and  Others, 

881 


ACT   III. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE    IIL 


Alarum :  Excursions.   Enter  Sir  John  Fastolfe, 
and  a  Captain. 

Cap.  Whither  away,  sir  John  Fastolfe,  in  such 

haste  ?" 
Fast.  Whither  away  ?  to  save  myself  by  flight ; 
We  are  like  to  have  the  overthrow  again. 

Cap.   What  I  will  you  fly,  and  leave  lord  Tal- 
bot ? 
Fast.  Ay, 

.AH  the  Talbots  in  the  world,  to  save  my  life. 

[Fxit. 
Gap,  Cowardly  knight !  ill  fortune  follow  thee ! 

[Hxit. 

Retreat:  Excursions.  Enter,  from  the  Town,  hk 
PuCELLE,  ALENgoN,  Charles,  <&c.,  and  Exeunt, 
flying. 

Bed.    Now,  quiet  soul,  depart  when   heaven 
please ; 
For  I  have  seen  our  enemies'  overthrow. 
What  is  the  trust  or  strength  of  foolish  man  ? 
rhey,  that  of  late  were  daring  with  their  scoffs 
Are  glad  and  fain  by  flight  to  save  themselves. 

[Dies,  and  is  carried  off  in  his  Chair. ^^ 

Alarum :  Enter  Talbot,  Burgundy,  and  Others. 

Tal.  Lost,  and  recover 'd  in  a  day  again  ! 

'This  is  a  double  honour,  Burgundy  : 

Vet,  heavens  have  glory  for  this  victory  ! 

Bur.  Warlike  and  matchless  Talbot,  Burgundy 

Enshrines  thee  in  his  heart ;  and  there  erects 

Thy  noble  deeds,  as  valour's  monument. 

Tal.  Thanks,  gentle  duke.     But  where  is  Pu- 
celle  now  ? 

I  think,  her  old  familiar  is  asleep  : 

Now  where  's  the  Bastard's  braves,  and  Charles 
his  glecks  ? 

What,  all  a-mort  ?     Rouen  hangs  her  head-  for 
grief. 

That  such  a  valiant  company  are  fled. 

Now  will  we  take  some  order  in  the  town. 

Placing  therein  some  expert  officers ; 

And  then  depart  to  Paris,  to  the  king ; 

For  there  young  Harry,  with  his  nobles,  lies. 
Bur.    What  wills  lord   Talbot,  pleaseth  Bur- 
gundy. 
Tal.  But  yet,  before  we  go,  let 's  not  forget 

The  noble  duke  of  Bedford,  late  deceased. 

But  see  his  exequies  fulfill'd  in  Rouen ; 

A  braver  soldier  never  couched  lance, 

A.  gentler  heart  did  never  sway  in  court : 
882 


But  kings  and  mightiest  potentates,  must  die 
For  that 's  the  end  of  human  misery.       [Exeunt, 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     The  Plains  near  tht 
City, 

Enter  Charles,  the  Bastard,  Alenjon,  La  Pd 
CELLE,  and  Forces. 

Puc,  Dismay  not,  princes,  at  this  accident, 
Nor  grieve  that  Roiien  is  so  recovered  ': 
Care  is  no  cure,  but  rather  corrosive. 
For  things  that  are  not  to  be  remedied. 
Let  frantic  Talbot  triumph  for  a  while, 
And  like  a  peacock  sweep  along  his  tail ; 
We  '11  pull  his  plumes,  and  take  away  his  train, 
If  Dauphin,  and  the  rest,  will  be  but  rul'd. 

Char,  We  have  been  guided  by  thee  hitherto, 
And  of  thy  cunning  had  no  diffidence ; 
One  sudden  foil  shall  never  breed  distrust. 

Bast.  Search  out  thy  wit  for  secret  policies. 
And  we  will  make  thee  famous  through  the  world. 

Alen.  We  '11  set  thy  statue  in  some  holy  place, 
And  have  thee  reverenc'd  like  a  blessed  saint ; 
Employ  thee  then,  sweet  virgin,  for  our  good. 

Pwc.    Then  thus  it  must  be ;  this  doth  Joan 
devise : 
By  fair  persuasions,  mix'd  with  sugar'd  words. 
We  will  entice  the  duke  of  Burgundy 
To  leave  the  Talbot,  and  to  follow  us. 

Char.  A.J,  marry,  sweeting,  if  we  could  do  that, 
France  were  no  place  for  Henry's  warriors  ; 
Nor  should  that  nation  boast  it  so  with  us. 
But  be  extirped  from  our  provinces. 

Alen.  For  ever  should  they  be  expuls'd  from 
France, 
And  not  have  title  to  an  earldom  here. 

Puc.  Your  honours  shall  perceive  how  I  will 
work, 
To  bring  this  matter  to  the  wished  end. 

\Prttms  heard. 
Hark !  by  the  sound  of  drum,  you  may  perceive 
Their  powers  are  marching  unto  Paris-ward. 

An  English  March.     Enter,  and  pass  over  at  a 
distance,  Talbot  and  his  Forces. 

There  goes  the  Talbot,  with  his  colours  spread , 
And  all  the  troops  of  English  after  him. 

A  French  March.     Enter  the  Duke  of  Burgundi 
and  Forces. 

Now,  in  the  rearward,  conies  the  duke,  and  his 
Fortune,  in  favour,  makes  him  lag  behind. 


ACT  m 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    IV. 


Summon  a  parley,  we  will  talk  with  him. 

l^A  Parley  sounded. 
Char.  A  parley  with  the  duke  of  Burgundy. 
Bur.  Who  craves  a  parley  with  the  Burgundy  ? 
Puc.  The  princely  Charles  of  France,  thy  coun- 
tryman. 
Bur.    What  say'st  thou,  Charles  ?    for  I  am 

marching  hence. 
Char.  Speak,  Pucelle ;  and  enchant  him  with 

thy  words. 
Puc.    Brave   Burgundy,   undoubted   hope   of 
France  ! 
Stay,  let  thy  humble  handmaid  speak  to  thee. 
Bur.  Speak  on  ;  but  be  not  over-tedious. 
Puc.    Look  on  thy  country,   look   on    fertile 
France, 
And  see  the  cities  and  the  towns  defac'd 
By  wasting  ruin  of  the  cruel  foe ! 
As  looks  the  mother  on  her  lovely  babe. 
When  death  doth  close  his  tender  dying  eyes, 
See,  see,  the  pining  malady  of  France  ; 
Behold  the  wounds,  the  most  unnatural  wounds, 
Which  thou  thyself  hast  given  her  woful  breast ! 
0,  turn  thy  edged  sword  another  way ; 
Strike  those  that  hurt,  and  hurt  not  those  that 

help! 
One  drop    of   blood,  drawn    from  thy  country's 

bosom. 
Should  grieve  thee  more  than  streams  of  foreign 

gore ; 
Return  thee,  therefore,  with  a  flood  of  tears. 
And  wash  away  thy  country's  stained  spots  ! 
Bur.  Either  she  hath  bewitch'd  me  with  her 
words, 
Or  nature  makes  me  suddenly  relent. 

Puc.   Besides,  all  French  and  France  exclaims 
on  thee. 
Doubting  thy  birth  and  lawful  progeny. 
Who  join'st  thou  with,  but  with  a  lordly  nation, 
That  will  not  trust  thee,  but  for  profit's  sake  ? 
When  Talbot  hath  set  footing  once  in  France, 
And  fashion'd  thee  that  instrument  of  ill. 
Who  then,  but  English  Henry,  will  be  lord. 
And  thou  be  thrust  out,  like  a  fugitive  ? 
Call  we  to  mind, — and  mark  but  this,  for  proof; — 
Was  not  tlie  duke  of  Orleans  thy  foe  ? 
And  was  he  not  in  England  prisoner  ? 
But,  when  they  heard  he  was  thine  enemy, 
They  set  him  free,  without  his  ransom  paid. 
In  spite  of  Burgundy,  and  all  his  friends. 
See  then  !  thou  fight'st  against  thy  countiymen, 
And  join'st  with  them  will  be  thy  slaughter-men. 


Come,  come,  return  ;  return,  thou  wand'ring  lord ; 
Charles,  and  the  rest,  will  take  thee  in  their  arms. 
Bur.  I  am  vanquished  ;  these  haughty  words 
of  hers 
Have  batter'd  me  like  roaring  cannon-shot. 
And  made  me  almost  yield  upon  ray  knees. — 
Forgive  me,  country,  and  sweet  countrymen  ! 
And,  lords,  accept  this  hearty  kind  embrace  : 
My  forces  and  my  power  of  men  are  youi-s  ; 
So,  farewell,  Talbot ;  I  '11  no  longer  trust  thee. 
Puc.  Done  like  a  Frenchman  ;  turn,  and  turn 

again  !'^ 
Char.    Welcome,  brave  duke  !  thy  friendship 

makes  us  fresh. 
Bast.    And   doth   beget  new  courage  in  our 

breasts. 
Alen.  Pucelle  hath  bravely  played  her  part  in 
this, 
And  doth  deserve  a  coronet  of  gold. 

Char.    Now  let  us  on,  my  lords,  and  join  our 
powers  ; 
And  seek  how  we  may  prejudice  the  foe.    [Uxeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Paris.     A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  and  other  Lords, 
Vernon,  Basset,  <£t.  To  them,  Talbot,  and 
some  of  his  Officers. 

Tal.     My  gracious   prince,  —  and  honourable 
peers, — 
Hearing  of  your  arrival  in  this  realm, 
I  have  a  while  given  truce  unto  my  wars. 
To  do  my  duty  to  my  sovereign  : 
In  sign  whereof,  this  arm — that  hath  reclaim'd 
To  your  obedience  fifty  fortresses, 
Twelve  cities,  and  seven  walled  towns  of  strength, 
Beside  five  hundred  prisoners  of  esteem, — 
Lets  fall  his  sword  before  your  highness'  feet ; 
And,  with  submissive  loyalty  of  heart. 
Ascribes  the  glory  of  his  conquest  got. 
First  to  my  God,  and  next  unto  your  grace. 

K.  Hen.  Is  this  the  lord  Talbot,  uncle  Gloster, 
That  hath  so  long  been  resident  in  France  ? 

Olo.  Yes,  if  it  please  your  majesty,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.    Welcome,  brave  captain,  and   victo 
rious  lord ! 
When  I  was  young,  (as  yet  I  am  not  old,) 
I  do  remember  how  my  father  said,^"* 
A  stouter  champion  never  handled  sword. 
Long  since  we  were  resolved  of  your  truth, 
Your  faithful  service,  and  your  toil  in  war* 
Yet  never  have  you  tasted  our  reward, 

888 


ACT   IV. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENX  I. 


Or  been  reguerdon'd  with  so  much  as  thanks, 
Because  till  now  we  never  saw  your  face : 
Therefore,  stand  up ;  and,  for  these  good  deserts, 
We  here  create  you  earl  of  Shrewsbury ; 
And  in  our  coronation  take  your  place. 

[Exeunt  K.  Hen.,  Glo.,  Tal.,  and  Nobles. 

Ver.  Now,  sir,  to  you,  that  were  so  hot  at  sea, 
Disgracing  of  these  colours  that  I  wear 
In  honour  of  my  noble  lord  of  York, — 
Dar'st   thou   maintain   the    former   words   thou 
spak'st? 

B(ts.  Yes,  sir;  as  well  as  you  dare  patronage 
The  envious  barking  of  your  saucy  tongue 
Against  my  lord,  the  duke  of  Somerset. 

Ver.  Sirrah,  thy  lord  I  honour  as  he  is. 


Bas.    Why,  what  is  he  ?  as  good  a  man  as 

York. 
Ver.    Hark  ye;  not  so:  in  witness,  take  ye 
that.  [Strikes  him. 

Bas.  Villain,  thou  know'st,  the  law  of  arras  is 
such, 
That,  who  so  draws  a  sword,  't  is  present  death ; 
Or  else  this  blow  should  broach  thy  dearest  blood. 
But  I  'II  unto  his  majesty,  and  crave 
I  may  have  liberty  to  venge  this  wrong ; 
When  thou  shalt  see,  I  'II  meet  thee  to  thy  cost. 
Ver.  Well,  miscreant,  I  '11  be  there  as  soon  as 
you; 
And,  after,  meet  you  sooner  than  you  would. 

[Exeunt, 


ACT    lY. 


SCENE  l.—The  Same.     A  Boom  of  State. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Gloster,  Exeter,  York, 
Suffolk,  Somerset,  Winchester,  Warwick, 
Talbot,  the  Governor  of  Paris,  and  Others. 

Glo.  Lord  bishop,  set  the  crown  upon  his  head. 
Win.  God  save  king  Henry,  of  that  name  the 

sixth ! 
Glo.  Now,  governor  of  Paris,  take  your  oath, — 

[Gov.  kneels. 
That  you  elect  no  other  king  but  him  : 
Esteem  none  friends,  but  such  as  are  his  friends ; 
And  none  your  foes,  but  such  as  shall  pretend 
Malicious  practices  against  his  state  : 
This  shall  ye  do,  so  help  yo?i  righteous  God  ! 

[Exeunt  Gov.  and  his  Train. 

Enter  Sir  John  Fastolfe. 

East.  My  gracious  sovereign,  as  I  rode  from 
Calais, 
To  haste  unto  your  coronation, 
A  letter  was  deliver'd  to  my  hands. 
Writ  to  your  grace  from  the  duke  of  Burgundy. 

Tal.  Shame  to  the  duke  of  Burgundy,  and  thee  1 
I  vow'd,  base  knight,  when  I  did  meet  thee  next, 
To  tear  the  garter  from  thy  craven's  leg, 

[Plucking  it  off. 
(Which  I  have  done)  because  unworthily 
884 


Thou  wast  installed  in  that  high  degree- 
Pardon  me,  princely  Henry,  and  the  rest : 
This  dastard,  at  the  battle  of  Patay, 
When  but  in  all  I  was  six  thousand  strong, 
And  that  the  French  were  almost  ten  to  one, — 
Before  we  met,  or  that  a  stroke  was  given. 
Like  to  a  trusty  squire,  did  run  away ; 
In  which  assault  we  lost  twelve  hundred  men ; 
Myself,  and  divers  gentlemen  beside, 
Were  there  surpris'd,  and  taken  prisoners. 
Then  judge,  great  lords,  if  I  have  done  amiss; 
Or  whether  that  such  cowards  ought  to  wear 
This  ornament  of  knighthood,  yea,  or  no. 

Glo.  To  say  the  truth,  this  fact  was  infamous 
And  ill  beseeming  any  common  man  ; 
Much  more  a  knight,  a  captain,  and  a  leader. 

Tal.   When  first  this  order  was  ordain'd,  mj 
lords. 
Knights  of  the  garter  were  of  noble  birth ; 
Valiant,  and  virtuous,  full  of  haughty  courage, 
Such  as  were  grown  to  credit  by  the  wars ; 
Not  fearing  death,  nor  shrinking  for  distress. 
But  always  resolute  in  worst  extremes. 
He  then,  that  is  not  furnish'd  in  this  sort, 
Doth  but  usurp  the  sacred  name  of  knight, 
Profaning  this  most  honourable  order ; 
And  should  (if  I  were  worthy  to  be  judge,) 
Be  quite  degraded,  like  a  hedge-born  swain 


ACT  nr. 


.KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    I. 


That  doth  presume  to  boast  of  gentle  blood. 
K.  Hen.  Stain  to  thy  countrymen  !  thou  hear'st 
thy  doom : 
Be  packing  therefore,  thou  that  wast  a  knight ; 
Henceforth  we  banish  thee,  on  pain  of  death. — 

[Exit  Fast. 
And  now,  my  lord  protector,  view  the  letter 
Sent  from  our  uncle  duke  of  Burgundy. 

Qlo.    What    means  his   grace,   that  he  hath 
chang'd  his  style  ? 

[  Viewing  the  superscription. 
Iv  0  more  but,  plain  and  bluntly, — "  To  the  king  f 
Hath  he  forgot,  he  is  his  sovereign  ? 
Or  doth  this  churlish  superscription 
Pretend  some  alteration  in  good  will  ? 
What  's  here  ? —  [Reads. 

I  have,  upon  especial  cause, — 
Mov'd  with  compassion  of  my  country's  wreck, 
Together  with  the  pitiful  complaints 
Of  such  as  your  oppression  feeds  upon, — 
Forsaken  your  pernicious  faction. 
And  join'd  with  Charles,  the  rightful  king  of  France. 

0  monstrous  treachery !     Can  this  be  so 
That  in  alliance,  amity,  and  oaths, 

There  should  be  found  such  false  dissembling  guile  ? 
K.  Hen.   What !  doth  my  uncle  Burgundy  re- 
volt ? 
Olo.  He  doth,  my  lord  ;  and  is  become  your  foe. 
K.  Hen,  Is  that  the  worst,  this  letter  doth  contain  ? 
Glo.  It  is  the  worst,  and  all,  my  lord,  he  writes. 
K.  Hen.  Why  then,  lord  Talbot  there  shall  talk 
with  him, 
And  give  him  chastisement  for  this  abuse : — 
My  lord,  how  say  you  ?  are  you  not  content  ? 
Tal.  Content,  my  liege  ?    Yes ;  but  that  I  am 
prevented, 

1  should  have  begg'd  I  might  have  been  employ'd. 

K.  Hen.  Then  gather  strength,  and  march  unto 
him  straight : 
Let  him  perceive,  how  ill  we  brook  his  treason  : 
And  what  offence  it  is,  to  flout  his  friends. 

Tal.  I  go,  my  lord  ;  in  heart  desiring  still. 
You  may  behold  confusion  of  your  foes.       [Exit. 

Enter  Vernon  and  Basset, 

Ver.  Grant  me  the  combat,  gracious  sovereign  ! 
Bass.  And  me,  my  lord,  grant  me  the  combat 

too! 
York.   This  is  my  servant :  Hear  him,  noble 

prince ! 
8oim.  And  this  is  mine :  Sweet  Henry,  favour 

luml 


K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  lords  ;  and  give  them  leave 
to  speak. — 
Say,  gentlemen.  What  makes  you  thus  exclaim? 
And  wherefore  crave  you  combat  ?  or  with  whom! 

Ver.  With  him,  my  lord  ;  for  he  hath  done  me 
wrong. 

Bas.  And  I  with  him ;  for  he  hath  done  me 
wrong, 

K.  Hen.  What  is  that  wrong  whereof  you  both 
complain  ? 
First  let  me  know,  and  then  I  '11  answer  you. 

Bas.    Crossing    the    sea   from   England   into 
France, 
This  fellow  here,  with  envious  carping  tongue, 
Upbraided  me  about  the  rose  I  wear : 
Saying, — the  sanguine  colour  of  the  leaves 
Did  represent  my  master's  blushing  cheeks, 
When  stubbornly  he  did  repugn  the  truth, 
About  a  certain  question  in  the  law, 
Argu'd  betwixt  the  duke  of  York  and  him ; 
With  other  vile  and  ignominious  terms : 
In  confutation  of  which  rude  reproach. 
And  in  defence  of  my  lord's  worthiness, 
I  crave  the  benefit  of  law  of  arms. 

Ver.  And  that  is  my  petition,  noble  lord : 
For  though  he  seem,  with  forged  quaint  conceit 
To  set  a  gloss  upon  his  bold  intent, 
Yet  know,  my  lord,  I  was  provok'd  by  him ; 
And  he  first  took  exceptions  at  this  badge, 
Pronouncing — that  the  paleness  of  this  flower 
Bewray'd  the  faintness  of  my  master's  heart. 

York.  Will  not  this  malice,  Somerset,  be  left? 

Som.    Your  private  grudge,  my  lord  of  York, 
will  out. 
Though  ne'er  so  cunningly  you  smother  it. 

K.  Hen.    Good  Lord  !  what  madness  rules  in 
brain-sick  men ; 
When,  for  so  slight  and  frivolous  a  cause, 
Such  factious  emulations  shall  arise  ! 
Good  cousins  both,  of  York  and  Somerset, 
Quiet  yourselves,  I  pray,  and  be  at  peace. 

York.  Let  this  dissension  first  be  tried  by  fight, 
And  then  your  highness  shall  command  a  peace. 

Som.  The  quarrel  toucheth  none  but  us  alone ; 
Betwixt  ourselves  let  us  decide  it  then. 

York.  There  is  my  pledge ;  accept  it,  Somerset, 

Ver.  Nay,  let  it  rest  where  it  began  at  first. 

Bas.  Confirm  it  so,  mine  honourable  lord. 

Glo.  Confirm  it  so  ?    Confounded  be  your  strife  • 
And  perish  ye,  with  your  audacious  prate  ! 
Presumptuous  vassals !  are  you  not  asham'd, 
With  this  immodest  clamorous  outrage 

885 


ACT  rv. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENR  n. 


To  trouble  and  disturb  the  king  and  us  ? 

And  you,  my  lords, — methinks,  you  do  not  well, 

To  bear  with  their  perverse  objections  ; 

Much  less,  to  take  occasion  from  their  mouths 

To  raise  a  mutiny  betwixt  yourselves ; 

Let  me  persuade  you  take  a  better  course. 

Exe.  It  grieves  his  highness ; — Good  my  lords  ; 
be  friends. 

K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  you  that  would  be  com- 
batants : 
Henceforth,  I  charge  you,  as  you  love  our  favour, 
Quite  to  forget  this  quarrel,  and  the  cause. — 
And  you,  my  lords, — remember  where  we  are  ; 
In  France,  amongst  a  fickle  wavering  nation : 
If  they  perceive  dissension  in  our  looks, 
And  that  within  ourselves  we  disagree, 
How  will  their  grudging  stomachs  be  provok'd 
To  wilful  disobedience,  and  rebel  ? 
Beside,  What  infamy  will  there  arise. 
When  foreign  princes  shall  be  certified, 
That,  for  a  toy,  a  thing  of  no  regard. 
King  Henry's  peers,  and  chief  nobility, 
Destroy'd  themselves,  and  lost  the  realm  of  France  ? 
O,  think  upon  the  conquest  of  my  father, 
My  tender  years  ;  and  let  us  not  forego 
That  for  a  trifle,  that  was  bought  with  blood  1 
Let  me  be  umpire  in  this  doubtful  strife. 
I  see  no  reason,  if  I  wear  this  rose, 

\^Putting  on  a  red  Rose. 
That  any  one  should  therefore  be  suspicious 
I  more  incline  to  Somerset,  than  York : 
Both  are  my  kinsmen,  and  I  love  them  both : 
As  well  they  may  upbraid  me  with  my  crown, 
Because,  forsooth,  the  king  of  Scots  is  crown'd. 
But  your  discretions  better  can  persuade, 
Than  I  am  able  to  instruct  or  teach : 
And  therefore,  as  we  hither  came  in  peace. 
So  let  us  still  continue  peace  and  love. — 
Cousin  of  York,  we  institute  your  grace 
To  be  our  regent  in  these  parts  of  France  :-^ 
And  good  my  lord  of  Somerset,  unite 
Your  troops  of  horsemen  with  his  bands  of  foot ; — 
And,  like  true  subjects,  sons  of  your  progenitors. 
Go  cheerfully  together,  and  digest 
Your  angry  choler  on  your  enemies. 
Ourself,  my  lord  protector,  and  the  rest, 
After  some  respite,  will  return  to  Calais ; 
From  thence  to  England  ;  where  I  hope  ere  long 
To  be  presented,  by  your  victories. 
With  Charles,  Alencjon,  and  that  traitorous  rout. 
[Flourish.     Exeunt  K.  Hen.,  Glo.,  Som., 
Win.,  Suf.,  and  Bas. 
a8« 


War.  My  lord  of  York,  I  promise  you,  the  king 
Prettily,  methought,  did  play  the  orator. 

York.  And  so  he  did ;  but  yet  I  like  it  not. 
In  that  he  wears  the  badge  cf  Somerset. 

War.  Tush  I  that  was  but  his  fancy,  blame  him 
not; 
I  dare  presume,  sweet  prince,  he  thought  no  harm. 

York.  And,  if  I  wist,  he  did, — But  let  it  rest; 
Other  afi:airs  must  now  be  managed. 

[Exeunt  York,  War.,  and  Ver. 

Exe.  Well  didst  thou,  Richard,  to  suppress  thy 
voice : 
For,  had  the  passions  of  thy  heart  burst  out, 
I  fear,  we  should  have  seen  decipher'd  there 
More  rancorous  spite,  more  furious  raging  broils, 
Than  yet  can  be  imagined  or  supposed. 
But  howsoe'er,  no  simple  man  that  sees 
This  jarring  discord  of  nobility. 
This  should'ring  of  each  other  in  the  court, 
This  factious  bandying  of  their  favourites. 
But  that  it  doth  presage  some  ill  event. 
'T  is  much,  when  sceptres  are  in  children's  hands  ; 
But  more,  when  envy  breeds  unkind  division ; 
There'  comes  the  ruin,  there  begins  confusion. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.— France.     Before  Bourdeaux. 
Enter  Talbot,  with  his  Forces. 

Tal.  Go  to  the  gates  of  Bourdeaux,  trumpeter, 
Summon  their  general  unto  the  wall. 

Trumpet  sounds  a  Parley.     Enter,  on  the  Walls, 
the  General  of  the  French  Forces,  and  Others. 

English  John  Talbot,  captains,  calls  you  forth, 
Servant  in  arms  to  Harry  king  of  England  ; 
And  thus  he  would, — Open  your  city  gates, 
Be  humble  to  us ;  call  my  sovereign  yours. 
And  do  him  homage  as  obedient  subjects. 
And  I  '11  withdraw  me  and  my  bloody  power : 
But,  if  you  frown  upon  this  profier'd  peace. 
You  tempt  the  fury  of  my  three  attendants. 
Lean  famine,  quartering  steel,  and  climbing  fire; 
Who,  in  a  moment,  even  with  the  earth 
Shall  lay  your  stately  and  air-braving  towers, 
If  you  forsake  the  oflfer  of  their  love. 

Gen.  Thou  ominous  and  fearful  owl  of  death, 
Our  nation's  terror,  and  their  bloody  scourge! 
The  period  of  thy  tyranny  approacheth. 
On  us  thou  canst  not  enter,  but  by  death  : 
For,  I  protest,  we  are  well  foitified. 
And  strong  enough  to  issue  out  and  fi^ht: 


,KINQ  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    lit. 


If  thou  retire,  the  Dauphin,  well  appointed. 

Stands  with  the  snares  of  war  to  tangle  thee : 

On  either  hand  thee  there  are  squadrons  pitch'd, 

To  wall  thee  from  the  liberty  of  tiight ; 

x\nd  no  way  canst  thou  turn  thee  for  redress. 

But  death  doth  front  thee  with  apparent  spoil, 

And  pale  destruction  meets  thee  in  the  face. 

Ten  thousand  French  have  ta'en  the  sacrament, 

To  rive  their  dangerous  artillery 

Upon  no  christian  soul  but  English  Talbot. 

Lo !  there  thou  stand'st,  a  breathing  valiant  man, 

Of  an  invincible  unconquer'd  spirit : 

This  is  the  latest  glory  of  thy  praise. 

That  I,  thy  enemy,  due  thee  withal ; 

For  ere  the  glass,  that  now  begins  to  run, 

Finish  the  process  of  his  sandy  hour, 

These  eyes,  that  see  thee  now  well  coloured. 

Shall  see  thee  witherVl,  bloody,  pale,  and  dead. 

[Drum  afar  off. 
Hark  !  hark !  the  Dauphin's  drum,  a  warning  bell, 
Sings  heavy  music  to  thy  timorous  soul ; 
A.nd  mine  shall  ring  thy  dire  departure  out. 

\Exeunt  Gen.,  <kc.,from  the  'V^alla. 
Tal.  He  fables  not,  I  hear  the  enemy ; — 
Out, some  light  horsemen,  and  peruse  their  wings. — 
0,  negligent  and  heedless  discipline ! 
How  are  we  park'd,  and  bounded  in  a  pale ; 
A.  little  herd  of  England's  timorous  deer, 
Maz'd  with  a  yelping  kennel  of  French  curs ! 
If  we  be  English  deer,  be  then  in  blood  : 
Not  rascal-like,  to  fall  down  with  a  pinch ; 
But  rather  moody-mad,  and  desperate  stags. 
Turn  on  the  bloody  hounds  with  heads  of  steel. 
And  make  the  cowards  stand  aloof  at  bay  : 
Sell  every  man  his  life  as  dear  as  mine, 
And  they  shall  find  dear  deer  of  us,  iny  friends. — 
God,  and  Saint  George!  Talbot,  and    England's 

right! 
Prosper  our  colours  in  this  dangerous  fight ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Plains  in  Gascony. 
Enter  York,  with  Forces  ;  to  him  a  Messenger. 

York.  Are  not  the  speedy  scouts  return'd  again, 
That  dogg'd  the  mighty  army  of  the  Dauphin  ? 

Mess.  They  are  return'd,  my  lord ;  and  give  it 
out. 
That  he  is  marcli'd  to  Bourdeaux  with  his  power, 
To  fight  with  Talbot :  As  he  march'd  along. 
By  your  espials  were  discovered 
Two  mighLier  troops  than  that  the  Dauphin  led ; 


"Which  join'd  with  him,  and  made  their  march  for 
Bourdeaux. 
York.  A  plague  upon  that  villain  Somerset; 
That  thus  delays  my  promised  supply 
Of  horsemen,  that  were  levied  for  this  siege ! 
Renowned  Talbot  doth  expect  my  aid ; 
And  I  am  lowted  by  a  traitor  villain," 
And  cannot  help  the  noble  chevalier : 
God  comfort  him  in  this  necessity ! 
If  he  miscarry,  farewell  wars  in  France. 

Enter  Sir  William  Lucy. 

Lucy.   Thou   princely   leader  of  our  English 
strength. 
Never  so  needful  on  the  earth  of  France, 
Spur  to  the  rescue  of  the  noble  Talbot ; 
Who  now  is  girdled  with  a  waist  of  iron. 
And  hemm'd  about  with  grim  destruction : 
To  Bourdeaux,  warlike  duke  !  to  Bourdeaux,  York ! 
Else,  farewell  Talbot,  France,  and  England's  hon- 
our. 
York.  O  God !  that  Somerset — who  in  proud 
heart 
Doth  stop  my  cornets — were  in  Talbot's  place  I 
So  should  we  save  a  valiant  gentleman. 
By  forfeiting  a  traitor  and  a  coward. 
Mad  ire,  and  wrathful  fury,  makes  me  weep, 
That  thus  we  die,  while  remiss  traitors  sleep. 
Lucy.  0,  send  some  succour  to  the  distress'd 

lord! 
York.  He  dies,  we  lose ;  I  break  my  warlike  word : 
We  mourn,  France  smiles;  we  lose,  they  daily  get; 
All  'long  of  this  vile  traitor  Somerset. 

Lucy.  Then,  God  take  mercy  on  brave  Talbot's 
soul ! 
And  on  bis  son,  young  .John ;   whom,  two  hours 

since, 
I  met  in  travel  toward  his  warlike  father ! 
This  seven  years  did  not  Talbot  see  his  son ; 
And  now  they  meet  where  both  their  lives  are  done. 
York.  Alas  !  what  joy  shall  noble  Talbot  have, 
To  bid  his  young  son  welcome  to  his  grave  ? 
Away !  vexation  almost  stops  my  breUth, 
That  sunder'd  friends  greet  in  the  hour  of  death.— 
Lucy,  farewell :  no  more  my  fortune  can. 
But  curse  the  cause  I  cannot  aid  the  man. — 
Maine,  Blois,  Poictiers,  and  Tours,  are  won  away 
'Long  all  of  Somerset,  and  his  delay.  [Exit 

Lucy.  Thus,  while  the  vulture  of  sedition 
Feeds  in  the  bosom  of  such  great  commanders, 
Sleeping  neglection  doth  betray  to  loss 
The  conquest  of  our  scarce-cold  conqueror, 

881 


ACT   IV. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE    T. 


That  ever-living  man  of  memory, 

Ileniy  the  Fifth : — Whiles  they  each  other  cross, 

Lives,  honours,  lands,  and  all,  hurry  to  loss.    [Uxit. 

SCENE  lY.— Other  Plains  o/Gascony. 

JSnter  Somerset,  with  his  Forces  ;  an  Officer  of 
Talbot's  with  him. 

Som.  It  is  too  late ;  I  cannot  send  them  now ; 
This  expedition  was  by  York,  and  Talbot, 
Too  rashly  plotted  ;  all  our  general  force 
Might  with  a  sally  of  the  very  town 
Be  buckled  with  :  the  over-daring  Talbot 
Hath  sullied  all  his  gloss  of  former  honour, 
By  this  unheedful,  desperate,  wild  adventure : 
York  set  him  on  to  fight,  and  die  in  shame. 
That,  Talbot  dead,  great  York    might   bear  the 
name. 

Off.  Here  is  sir  William  Lucy,  who  with  me 
Set  from  our  o'er-match'd  forces  forth  for  aid. 

JEnter  Sir  William  Lucy. 

Som.  How  now,  sir  William  ?  whither  were  you 

sent? 
Lucy.    Whither,  my  lord  ?  from  bought  and 
sold  lord  Talbot ! 
Who,  ring'd  about  with  bold  adversity, 
Cries  out  for  noble  York  and  Somerset, 
To  beat  assailing  death  from  his  weak  legions. 
And  whiles  the  honourable  captain  there 
Drops  bloody  sweat  from  his  war-wearied  limbs. 
And,  in  advantage  ling'ring,  looks  for  rescue. 
You,   his    false   hopes,   the   trust    of   England's 

honour, 
Keep  off  aloof  with  worthless  emulation. 
Let  not  your  piivate  discord  keep  away 
The  levied  succours  that  should  lend  him  aid 
While  he,  renowned  noble  gentleman. 
Yields  up  his  life  unto  a  world  of  odds : 
Orleans  the  Bastard,  Charles,  and  Burgundy, 
Alen^on,  Reignier,  compass  him  about, 
And  Talbot  perisheth  by  your  default. 

Som.  York  set  him  on,  York  should  have  sent 

him  aid. 
Lucy.  And  York  as  fast  upon  your  grace  ex- 
claims ; 
Swearing  that  you  withhold  his  levied  host. 
Collected  for  this  expedition, 

Som.  York  lies ;  he  might  have  sent  and  had 
the  horse : 
I  owe  him  little  duty,  and  less  love ; 
^nA  t«lrrt  foul  scorn,  to  fawn  on  him  by  sending. 


Lucy.  The  fraud  of  England,  not  the  force  of 
France, 
Hath  now  entrapp'd  the  noble-minded  Talbot : 
Never  to  England  shall  he  bear  his  life ; 
But  dies,  betray'd  to  fortune  by  your  strife. 

Som.  Come,  go ;  I  will  despatch  the  horsemen 
straight : 
Within  six  hours  they  will  be  at  his  aid. 

Lucy.   Too  late  comes  r-^^cue ;  he  is  ta'en,  or 
slain  : 
For  fly  he  could  not,  if  he  would  have  fled ; 
And  fly  would  Talbot  never,  though  he  might. 
Som.  If  he  be  dead,  brave  Talbot  then  adieu ! 
Lucy.    His  fame  lives  in  the  world,  his  shame 
in  you.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — The  English  Camp  near  Bourdeaux. 
Enter  Talbot  and  John  his  Son. 

Tal.  0  young  John  Talbot  1  I  did  send  for  thee. 
To  tutor  thee  in  stratagems  of  war ; 
That  Talbot's  name  might  be  in  thee  reviv'd. 
When  sapless  age,  and  weak  unable  limbs, 
Should  bring  thy  father  to  his  drooping  chair. 
But, — 0  malignant  and  ill-boding  stars  ! — 
Now  thou  art  come  unto  a  feast  of  death, 
A  terrible  and  unavoided  danger : 
Therefore,  dear  boy,  mount  on  my  swiftest  horse, 
And  I  'II  direct  thee  how  thou  shalt  escape 
By  sudden  flight :  come,  dally  not,  begone. 

John.    Is  my  name  Talbot  ?   and  am  I  your 
son  ? 
And  shall  I  fly  ?  O,  if  you  love  my  mother, 
Dishonour  not  her  honourable  name. 
To  make  a  bastard,  and  a  slave  of  me  : 
The  world  will  say — He  is  not  Talbot's  blood, 
That  basely  fled,  when  noble  Talbot  stood. 

Tal.  Fly,  to  revenge  my  death,  if  I  be  slain. 

John,  He,  that  flies  so,  will  ne'er  return  again. 

Tal.  If  we  both  stay,  we  both  are  sure  to  die. 

John.     Then   let   me   stay ;    and,   father,    do 
you  fly : 
Your  loss  is  great,  so  your  regard  should  be ; 
My  worth  unknown,  no  loss  is  known  in  me. 
Upon  my  death  the  French  can  little  boast ; 
In  yours  they  will,  in  you  all  hopes  are  lost. 
Flight  cannot  stain  the  honour  you  have  won ; 
But  mine  it  will,  that  no  exploit  have  done  : 
You  fled  for  vantage  every  one  will  swear ; 
But,  if  I  bow,  they  '11  say — it  was  for  fear. 
There  is  no  hope  that  ever  I  will  stay. 
If,  the  first  hour,  I  shrink,  and  run  away. 


ACT  IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCKNK   VI. 


Heie,  on  my  knee,  I  beg  mortality, 
Rather  than  life  preserv'd  with  infamy. 

Tal.    Shall  all  thy  mother's  hopes  lie  in  one 

tomb? 
John.  Ay,  rather  than  I  '11  shame  my  mother's 

womb. 
Tal.  Upon  my  blessing  I  command  thee  go. 
John.  To  fight  I  will,  but  not  to  fly  the  foe. 
Tal.  Part  of  thy  father  may  be  sav'd  in  thee. 
John.  No  part  of  him,  but  will  be  shame  in  me. 
Tal.  Thou  never  hadst  renown,  nor  can'st  not 

lose  it. 
John.  Yes,  your  renowned  name :  Shall  flight 

abuse  it  ? 
Tal.  Thy  father's  charge  shall  clear  thee  from 

that  stain. 
John.  You  cannot  witness  for  me,  being  slain. 
If  death  be  so  apparent,  then  both  fly. 

Tal.  And  leave  my  followers  here,  to  fight,  and 
die  ? 
My  age  was  never  tainted  with  such  shame. 
John.    And  shall  my  youth  be  guilty  of  such 
blame  ? 
No  more  can  I  be  sever'd  from  your  side. 
Than  can  yourself  yourself  in  twain  divide  : 
Stay,  go,  do  what  you  will,  the  like  do  I ; 
For  live  I  will  not,  if  my  father  die. 

Tal.    Then  here  I  take  my  leave  of  thee,  fair 
son, 
Born  to  eclipse  thy  life  this  afternoon. 
Come,  side  by  side  together  live  and  die; 
And  soul  with  soul  from  France  to  heaven  fly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— ^  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum :  Excursions,  wherein  Talbot's  Son  is 
hemmed  about,  and  Talbot  rescues  him. 

2'al.  Saint  George  and  victory!  fight,  soldiers, 
fight : 
The  regent  hath  with  Talbot  broke  his  word. 
And  left  us  to  the  rage  of  France  his  sword. 
Where   is  John  Talbot  ? — pause,  and    take  thy 

breath  ; 
I  gave  theo  life,  and  rescu'd  thee  from  death. 

John,  O  twice  my  fether  !  twice  am  I  thy  son  : 
The  life,  thou  gav'st  me  first,  was  lost  and  done ; 
Till  with  thy  warlike  sword,  despite  of  fate. 
To  my  determin'd  time  thou  gav'st  new  date. 
Tal.  When  from  the  Dauphin's  crest  thy  sword 
struck  fire, 
It  warm'd  thy  father's  heart  with  proud  desire 


Of  bold  fac'd  victory.     Then  leaden  age, 
Quicken'd  with  youthful  spleen,  and  warlike  rage, 
Beat  down  Alen^on,  Orleans,  Burgundy, 
And  from  the  pride  of  Gallia  rescu'd  thee. 
The  ireful  bastard  Orleans — that  drew  blood 
From  thee,  my  boy ;  and  had  the  maidenhood 
Of  thy  first  fight — I  soon  encountered  ; 
And,  interchanging  blows,  I  quickly  shed 
Some  of  his  bastard  blood  ;  and,  in  disgrace, 
Bespoke  him  thus :  "  Contaminated,  base, 
And  misbegotten  blood  I  spill  of  thine, 
Mean  and  right  poor ;  for  that  pure  blood  of  mine, 
Which  thou  didst  force  from  Talbot,  ray  brave 

boy  :"— 
Here,  purposing  the  Bastard  to  destroy. 
Came  in  strong  rescue.    Speak,  thy  father's  care ; 
Art  not  thou  weary,  John  ?     How  dost  thou  fare  ? 
Wilt  thou  yet  leave  the  battle,  boy,  and  fly. 
Now  thou  art  seal'd  the  son  of  chivalry  ? 
Fly,  to  revenge  my  death,  when  I  am  dead ; 
The  help  of  one  stands  me  in  little  stead. 
O,  too  much  folly  is  it,  well  I  wot. 
To  hazard  all  our  lives  in  one  small  boat. 
If  I  to-day  die  not  with  Frenchmen's  rage, 
To-morrow  I  shall  die  with  niickle  age : 
By  me  they  nothing  gain,  an  if  I  stay, 
'T  is  but  the  short'ning  of  my  life  one  day : 
In  thee  thy  mother  dies,  our  household's  name, 
My  death's  revenge,  thy  youth,  and  England's 

fame : 
All  these,  and  more,  we  hazard  by  thy  stay ; 
All  these  are  sav'd,  if  thou  wilt  fly  away. 

John,  The  sword  of  Orleans  hath  not  made  me 

smart. 
These  words  of  yours  draw  life-blood  from  ray 

heart : 
On  that  advantage,  bought  with  such  a  shame, 
(To  save  a  paltry  life,  and  slay  bright  fame,) 
Before  young  Talbot  from  old  Talbot  fly, 
The  coward  horse,  that  bears  me,  fall  and  die  ! 
And  like  me  to  the  peasant  boys  of  France ; 
To  be  shame's  scorn,  and  subject  of  mischance ! 
Surely,  by  all  the  glory  you  have  won, 
An  if  I  fly,  I  am  not  Talbot's  son : 
Then  talk  no  more  of  flight,  it  is  no  boot ; 
If  son  to  Talbot,  die  at  Talbot's  foot. 

Tal.    Then   follow  thou  thy  desperate  sire  of 

Crete, 
Thou  Icarus  ;  thy  life  to  me  is  sweet : 
If  thou  wilt  fight,  fight  by  thy  father's  side ; 
And,  commendable  prov'd,  let 's  die  in  pride. 

[Exeunt. 
889 


ACT    IV. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE  vn. 


SCENE  YJI.— Another  Fart  of  the  Same. 

Alarum:  Excursions.     Enter  Talbot  wounded^ 
supported  by  a  Servant. 

Tal.    Where  is  ray  other  life  ? — mine  own  is 

gone  ;— 
0,    where  's   young   Talbot  ?    where   is   valiant 

John  ?— 
Triumphant  death,  smear'd  with  captivity  ! 
Young  Talbot's  valour  makes  me  smile  at  thee  : — 
When  he  perceiv'd  me  shrink,  and  on  my  knee, 
His  bloody  sword  he  brandish'd  over  me, 
And,  like  a  hungi-y  lion,  did,  commence 
Rough  deeds  of  rage,  and  stern  impatience ; 
But  when  my  angry  guardant  stood  alone, 
Tend'ring  my  ruin,  and  assail'd  of  none, 
Dizzy-ey'd  fury,  and  great  rage  of  heart. 
Suddenly  made  him  from  my  side  to  start 
Into  the  clust'ring  battle  of  the  French  ; 
And  in  that  sea  of  blood  my  boy  did  drench 
His  ovennounting  spirit ;  and  there  died 
My  Icarus,  my  blossom,  in  his  pride. 

Enter  Soldiers,  bearing  the  Body  o/"  John  Talbot. 

Serv.  0  my  dear  lord  I  lo,  where  your  son  is 

borne  1 
Tal.  Thou  antic  death,  which  laugh'st  us  here 

to  scorn, 
Anon,  from  thy  insulting  tyranny, 
Coupled  in  bonds  of  perpetuity. 
Two  Talbots,  winged  through  the  lither  sky,^ 
in  thy  despite,  shall  'scape  mortality. — 
O  thou  whose  wounds  become  hard-favour'd  death. 
Speak  to  thy  father,  ere  thou  yield  thy  breath : 
Brave  death  by  speaking,  whether  he  will,  or  no ; 
Imagine  him  a  Frenchman,  and  thy  foe. — 
Poor  boy !  he  smiles,  methinks  ;  as  who  should 

say- 
Had  death  been  French,  then  death  had  died 

to-day. 
Come,  come,  and  lay  him  in  his  father's  arms ; 
My  spirit  can  no  longer  bear  these  harms. 
Soldiers,  adieu !  I  have  what  I  would  have, 
Now  my  old  arms  are  young  John  Talbot's  grave. 

[Bies. 

Alarums.  Exeunt  Soldiers  and  Servant,  leaving 
tlie  two  Bodies.  Enter  Charles,  ALENfON, 
BuEQUNDT,  Bastard,  La  Pucblle,  and  Forces. 

Char.    Had  York  and  Somerset  brought  res- 
cue in, 
We  «hould  have  found  a  bloody  day  of  this. 
890 


Bast.  How  the  young  whelp  of  Talbot's,  raging- 
wood. 
Did  flesh  his  puny  sword  in  Frenchmen's  blood ! 

Fuc.  Once  I  encounter'd  him,  and  thus  I  said, 
"Thou  maiden  youth,  be  vanquish'd  by  a  maid:'' 
But — with  a  proud,  majestical  high  scorn, — 
He  answer'd  thus  :  "  Young  Talbot  was  not  bom 
To  be  the  pillage  of  a  giglot  wench :"'' 
So,  rushing  in  the  bowels  of  the  French, 
He. left  me  proudly,  as  unworthy  fight. 

Bur.  Doubtless,  he  would  have  made  a  noble 
knight ; 
See,  where  he  lies  inhersed  in  the  arms 
Of  the  most  bloody  nurser  of  his  harms. 

Bast.    Hew  them  to  pieces,  hack  their  bones 
asunder ; 
Whose  life  was  England's  glory,  Gallia's  wonder. 

Char.  0,  no  ;  forbear :  for  that  which  we  have 
fled 
During  the  life,  let  us  not  wrong  it  dead. 

Enter  Sir  William  Lucy,  attended  ;  a  French 
Herald  preceding. 

Lucy.  Herald, 
Conduct  me  to  the  Dauphin's  tent :  to  know 
Who  hath  obtain'd  the  glory  of  the  day. 

Char.    On  what  submissive  message  art  thou 

sent? 
Lucy.  Submission,  Dauphin  ?  't  is  a  mere  French 
word ; 
We  English  warriors  wot  not  what  it  means. 
I  come  to  know  what  prisoners  thou  hast  ta'en, 
And  to  survey  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 

Char.    For   prisoners   ask'st   thou  ?    hell   our 
prison  is. 
But  tell  me  whom  thou  seek'st. 

Lucy.  Where  is  the  great  Alcides  of  the  field, 
Valiant  lord  Talbot,  earl  oi  Shrewsbury  ? 
Created  for  his  rare  success  in  arms. 
Great  earl  of  Washford,''  Waterford,  and  Valence; 
Lord  Talbot  of  Good  rig  and  Urchinfield, 
Lord  Strange  of  Blackmere,  lord  Verdun  of  Alton, 
Lord  Cromwell  of  Wingfield,  lord  Furnival  of 

SheflBeld, 
The  thrice  victorious  lord  of  Falconbridge  ; 
Knight  of  the  noble  order  of  Saint  George, 
Worthy  Saint  Michael,  and  the  Golden  Fleece ; 
Great  marshal  to  Henry  the  Sixth, 
Of  all  his  wars  within  the  realm  of  Franco? 
Fuc.  Here  is  a  silly  stately  style  indeed! 
The  Turk,  that  two-and-fifty  kingdoms  hath, 
Writes  not  so  tedious  a  style  as  this. — 


i 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE   I. 


IliiD,  that  thou  magnifiest  with  all  these  titles, 
Stinking,  and  fly-blo^^  n,  lies  here  at  our  foet. 
Lucy.    Is  Talbot  slain  ;  the  Frenchmen's  only 
scourge, 
Your  kingdom's  terror  and  black  Nemesis  ? 
O,  were  mine  eye-balls  into  bullets  turn'd. 
That  I,  in  rage,  might  shoot  them  at  your  faces ! 
O,  that  I  could  but  call  these  dead  to  life ! 
It  were  enough  to  fright  the  realm  of  France : 
Were  but  his  picture  left  among  you  here. 
It  would  amaze  the  proudest  of  you  all. 
Give  me  their  bodies ;   that  I  may  bear  them 

hence. 
And  give  them  burial  as  beseems  their  worth. 


Puc.  I  think,  this  upstart  is  old  Talbot's  ghost, 
He  speaks  with  such  a  jJroud  commanding  spirit. 
For  God's  sake,  let  him  have  'em  ;  to  keep  them 

here. 
They  would  but  stink,  and  putrefy  the  air. 
Char.  Go,  take  their  bodies  hence. 
Lucy.  I  '11  bear  them  hence  : 

But  from  their  ashes  shall  be  rear'd^^ 
A  phoenix  that  shall  make  all  France  afeard. 
Char.  So  we  be  rid  of  them,  do  with  'em  what 
thou  wilt. 
And  now  to  Paris,  in  this  conquering  vein ; 
All  will  be  ours,  now  bloody  Talbot's  slain. 

\Exeunt. 


ACT  y. 


SCENE  I. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henrt,  Gloster,  and  Exeter. 

K.  Hen.  Have  you  perus'd  the  letters  from  the 
Pope, 
The  emperor,  and  the  earl  of  Armagnac  ? 

Olo.  I  have,  my  lord  ;  and  their  intent  is  this, — 
They  humbly  sue  unto  your  excellence, 
To  have  a  goodly  peace  concluded  of, 
Between  the  realms  of  England  and  of  France. 
K.  Hen.  How  doth  your  grace  affect  their  mo- 
tion ? 
Glo.  Well,  my  good  lord  ;    and  as  the  only 
means 
To  stop  effusion  of  our  Christian  blood. 
And  'stablish  quietness  on  every  side. 

K.   Hen.    Ay,    marry,    uncle ;    for    I   always 
thought, 
It  was  both  impious  and  unnatural, 
That  such  iramanity''"  and  bloody  strife 
Should  reign  among  professors  of  one  faith. 

Glo.  Beside,  my  lord, — the  sooner  to  effect. 
And  surer  bind,  this  knot  of  amity, — 
The  earl  of  Armagnac — near  kin  to  Charles, 
A  man  of  great  authority  in  France, — 
ProflFers  his  only  daughter  to  your  grace 
In  marriage,  with  a  large  and  sumptuous  dowry. 
K.  Hen.  Marriage,  uncle  1  alas  1  my  years  are 
young ; 


And  fitter  is  my  study  and  my  books, 
Than  wanton  dalliance  with  a  paramour. 
Yet,  call  the  ambassadors ;  and,  as  you  please, 
So  let  them  have  their  answers  every  one : 
I  shall  be  well  content  with  any  choice, 
Tends  to  God's  glory,  and  my  country's  weal. 

Enter  a  Legate,  and  Two  Ambassadors,  with  Win 
CHESTER,  in  a  CardinaVs  Habit. 

Exe.  What!  is  my  lord  of  Winchester  inslall'd, 
And  call'd  unto  a  cardinal's  degree ! 
Then,  I  perceive,  that  will  be  verified, 
Henry  the  Fifth  did  sometime  prophesy, 
"If  once  he  come  to  be  a  cardinal. 
He  '11  make  his  cap  co-equal  with  the  crown." 

K.  Hen.   My  lords  ambassadore,  your  several 
suits 
Have  been  consider'd  and  debated  on. 
Your  purpose  is  both  good  and  reasonable : 
And,  therefore,  are  we  certainly  resolv'd 
To  draw  conditions  of  a  friendly  peace; 
Which,  by  my  lord  of  Winchester,  we  mean 
Shall  be  transported  presently  to  France. 

Glo.    And  for  the   proffer  of    my   lord  your 
master, — 
I  have  inform'd  his  highness  so  at  large, 
As — liking  of  the  lady's  virtuous  gifts. 
Her  beauty,  and  the  value  of  her  dower, — 
He  doth  intend  she  shall  be  England's  queen. 

8»1 


ACT   V. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCENE    Il-IIl. 


K.  Hen.  In  argument  and  proof  of  which  con- 
tract, 
Bear  her  this  jewel,  \To  the  Arab.]  pledge  of  my 

affection. 
And  so,  my  Lord  Protector,  see  them  guarded, 
And  safely  brought  to  Dover ;  where,  inshipp'd, 
Commit  them  to  the  fortune  of  the  sea. 

\Exeunt  K.  Hen.  and  Train ;  Glc,  Exe,,  and 
Amb. 

Win.    Stay,  my  lord   legate ;    you  shall  first 
receive 
The  sura  of  money,  which  I  promised 
Should  be  deliver'd  to  his  holiness 
For  clothing  me  in  these  grave  ornaments. 

Leg.  I  will  attend  upon  your  lordship's  leisure. 

Win.  Now,  Winchester  will  not  submit,  I  trow, 
Or  be  inferior  to  the  proudest  peer. 
Humphrey  of  Gloster,  thou  shalt  well  perceive, 
That,  neither  in  birth,  or  for  authority, 
The  bishop  will  be  overborne  by  thee : 
I  '11  either  make  thee  stoop,  and  bend  thy  knee. 
Or  sack  this  country  with  a  mutiny.         \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — France.     Plains  in  Anjou. 

Enter  Charles,  Burgundy,  Alenpon,  La  Pu- 
CELLE,  and  Forces,  marching. 

Char.    These  news,  my  lords,  may  cheer  our 
drooping  spirits : 
'T  is  said,  the  stout  Parisians  do  revolt. 
And  turn  again  unto  the  warlike  French. 

Alen.  Then  march  to  Paris,  royal  Charles  of 
France, 
And  keep  not  back  your  powers  in  dalliance. 

Puc.  Peace  be  amongst  them,  if  they  turn  to  us ; 
Else,  ruin  combat  with  their  palaces  I 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Success  unto  our  valiant  general, 
And  happiness  to  his  accomplices ! 

CJiar.  What  tidings  send  our  scouts  ?  I  pr'y- 

thee,  speak. 
Mess.  The  English  army,  that  divided  was 
Into  two  parts,  is  now  conjoin'd  in  one ; 
And  means  to  give  you  battle  presently. 

Char.    Somewhat  too  sudden,  sirs,  the  warn- 
ing is ; 
But  we  will  presently  provide  for  them. 

Btir.  I  trust,  the  ghost  of  Talbot  is  not  there ; 
fcfow  he  is  gone,  my  lord,  you  need  not  fear. 
Puc.    Of  all  base  passions,  fear  is  most  ac- 
curs'd : — 
802 


Command    the    conquest,   Charles,   it    shall   be 

thine ; 
Let  Henry  fret,  and  all  the  world  repine. 

Char.  Then,  on,  my  lords  ;  and  France  be  for- 
tunate !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     Before  Anglers. 
Alarums:  Excursions.     JSViier  La  Pucelle. 

Puc.    The  Regent  conquei-s,  and  the  French 
men  fly. — 
Now  help,  ye  charming  spells,  and  periapts  ;^' 
And  ye  choice  spirits  that  admonish  me. 
And  give  me  signs  of  future  accidents  !  [Thunder 
You  speedy  helpers,  that  are  substitutes 
Under  the  lordly  monarch  of  the  north,^* 
Appear,  and  aid  me  in  this  enterprise ! 

Enter  Fiends. 

This  speedy  quick  appearance  argues  proof 
Of  your  accustom'd  diligence  to  me. 
Now,  ye  familiar  spirits,  that  are  cull'd 
Out  of  the  powerful  regions  under  earth, 
Help  me  this  once,  that  France  may  get  the  field. 
[They  walk  about,  and  speak  not, 
0,  hold  me  not  with  silence  over-long ! 
Where  I  was  wont  to  feed  you  with  my  blood, 
I  '11  lop  a  member  off,  and  give  it  you. 
In  earnest  of  a  further  benefit ; 
So  you  do  condescend  to  help  me  now. 

[They  hang  their  heads. 
No  hope  to  have  redress  ? — My  body  shall 
Pay  recompense,  if  you  will  grant  my  suit. 

[They  shake  their  heads 
Cannot  my  body,  nor  blood-sacrifice, 
Entreat  you  to  your  wonted  furtherance  ? 
Then  take  my  soul ;  my  body,  soul,  and  all, 
Before  that  England  give  the  French  the  foil. 

[They  depart. 
See  I  they  forsake  me.     Now  the  time  is  come, 
That  France  must  veil  her  lofty-plumed  crest, 
And  let  her  head  fall  into  England's  lap. 
My  ancient  incantations  are  too  weak. 
And  hell  too  strong  for  me  to  buckle  with : 
Now,  France,  thy  glory  droopeth  to  the  dust. 

[Exit. 

Alarums.  Enter  French  and  English,  fighting. 
La  Pucelle  and  York  fight  hand  to  hand.  La 
PucELLE  is  taken.     The  French  fiy. 

York.    Damsel  of  France,  I  think,  I  have  you 
fast: 


ACT    V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE   in. 


Unchain  your  spirits  now  with  spelling  charms, 
And  try  if  they  can  gain  your  liberty. — 
A  goodly  prize,  fit  for  the  devil's  grace  ! 
Bee,  how  the  ugly  witch  doth  bend  her  brows, 
As  if,  with  Circe,  she  would  change  my  shape. 
Puc.    Chang'd  to  a  worser  shape  thou  canst 

not  be. 
York.   O,  Charles  the  Dauphin  is  a  proper 
man  ; 
No  shape  but  his  can  please  your  dainty  eye. 
Puc.  A  plaguing  mischief  light  on  Charles,  and 
thee! 
And  may  ye  both  be  suddenly  surpris'd 
By  bloody  hands,  in  sleeping  on  your  beds ! 
York.    Fell,  banning  hag  I  enchantress,   hold 

thy  tongue. 
Puc.  I  pr'ythee,  give  me  leave  to  curse  a  while. 
York.  Curse,  miscreant,  when  thou  comest  to 
the  stake.  [Exeunt. 

Alarums.     Enter   Suffolk,  leading  in  Lady 
Margaret. 

Suf.  Be  what  thou  wilt,  thou  art  my  prisoner. 

[Gazes  on  her. 

0  fairest  beauty,  do  not  fear,  nor  fly  ; 

For  I  will  touch  thee  but  with  reverent  hands. 
And  lay  them  gently  on  thy  tender  side. 

1  kiss  tjuese  fingers  [kissing  her  hand^  for  eternal 

peace : 
Who  art  thou  ?  say,  that  I  may  honour  thee. 
Mar.  Margaret  my  name ;  and  daughter  to  a 

king. 
The  king  of  Naples,  whosoe'er  thou  art. 

Suf.  An  earl  I  am,  and  Sufiblk  am  I  call'd. 
Be  not  ofiended,  nature's  miracle, 
Thou  art  allotted  to  be  ta'en  by  me : 
So  doth  the  swan  her  downy  cygnets  save. 
Keeping  them  prisoners  underneath  her  wings. 
Yet,  if  this  servile  usage  once  oflfend. 
Go,  and  be  free  again  as  Suffolk's  friend. 

[She  turns  away  as  going. 
O,  stay  !  — I  have  no  power  to  let  her  pass ; 
My  hand  would  free  her,  but  my  heart  says — no. 
As  plays  the  sun  upon  the  glassy  streams, 
Twinkling  another  counterfeited  beam. 
So  seems  this  gorgeous  beauty  to  mine  eyes. 
Fain  would  I  woo  her,  yet  I  dare  not  speak : 
I  '11  call  for  pen  and  ink,  and  write  my  mind  : 
Fie,  De  la  Poole !  disable  not  thyself; 
Hast  not  a  tongue  ?  is  she  not  here  thy  prisoner  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  daunted  at  a  woman's  sight? 
Ay  ;  beauty's  princely  majesty  is  such, 


Confounds   the   tongue,  and   makes  the   sensen 
rough. 
Mar.  Say,  earl  of  Suffolk, — if  thy  name  be  so,— 
What  ransom  must  I  pay  before  I  pass  ? 
For,  I  perceive,  I  am  thy  prisoner. 

Suf.   How  canst  thou  tell,  she  will  deny  thy 
suit. 
Before  thou  make  a  trial  of  her  love  ?         [Aside. 
Mar.  Why  speak'st  thou  not  ?  what  ransom 

must  I  pay? 

Suf.  She 's  beautiful ;  and  therefore  to  be  woo'd . 

She  is  a  woman  ;  therefore  to  be  won.        [Aside. 

Mar.  Wilt  thou  accept  of  ransom,  yea,  or  no  ? 

Suf.  Fond  man  !  remember,  that  thou  hast  a 

wife; 

Then  how  can  Margaret  be  thy  paramour  ?  [Aside. 

Mar.  I  were  best  leave  him,  for  he  will  not  hear. 

Suf.  There  all  is  marr'd  ;  there  lies  a  cooling 

card. 
Mar.    He  talks  at  random  ;  sure,  the  man  is 

mad. 
Suf.  And  yet  a  dispensation  may  be  had. 
Mar.    And  yet  I  would  that  you  would  an- 
swer me. 
Suf  I  '11  win  this  lady  Margaret.     For  whom  ? 
Why,  for  my  king:  Tush!  that's  a  wooden  thing. 
Mar.  He  talks  of  wood  :  It  is  some  carpenter. 
Suf.  Yet  so  my  fancy  may  be  satisfied. 
And  peace  established  between  these  realms. 
But  there  remains  a  scruple  in  that  too : 
For  though  her  father  be  the  king  of  Naples, 
Duke  of  Anjou  and  Maine,  yet  is  he  poor. 
And  our  nobility  will  scorn  the  match.       [Aside. 
Mar.     Hear   ye,    captain  ?     Are   you    not   at 

leisure  ? 
Suf.  It  shall  be  so,  disdain  they  ne'er  so  much : 
Henry  is  youthful,  and  will  quickly  yield. — 
Madam,  I  have  a  secret  to  reveal. 

Mar.  What  though  I  be  enthrall'd  ?  he  seems 

a  knight. 

And  will  not  any  way  dishonour  me.  [Aside 

Suf.  Lady,  vouchsafe  to  listen  what  I  say. 

Mar.  Perhaps,  I  shall  be  rescu'd  by  the  French; 

And  then  I  need  not  crave  his  courtesy.      [Aside. 

Suf    Sweet    madam,  give    me    hearing  in   a 

cause — 
Mar.    Tush  !  women  have  been  captivate  ere 
now.  [Aside. 

Suf.  Lady,  wherefore  talk  you  so  ? 
Mar.  I  cry  you  mercy,  't  is  but  quid  for  quo. 
Suf.     Say,    gentle    priness,    would   you    not 
suppose 


ACT   V. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


8CKJSE    111. 


Your  bondage  happy,  to  be  made  a  queen  ? 

Mar.  To  be  a  queen  in  bondage,  is  more  vile, 
Than  is  a  slave  in  base  servility ; 
For  princes  should  be  free. 

Suf.  And  so  shall  you. 

If  happy  England's  royal  king  be  free. 

Mar.  Why,  what  concerns  his  freedom  unto  me  ? 

Suf.    I  '11  undertake  to  make   thee  Henry's 
queen ; 
To  put  a  golden  sceptre  in  thy  hand, 
And  set  a  precious  crown  upon  thy  head. 
If  thou  wilt  condescend  to  be  ray — 

Mar.  What  ? 

Suf.  His  love. 

Mar.  I  am  unworthy  to  be  Henry's  wife. 

Suf.  No,  gentle  madam  ;  I  unworthy  am 
To  woo  so  fair  a  dame  to  be  his  wife, 
And  have  no  portion  in  the  choice  myself 
How  say  you,  madam  ;  are  you  so  content  ? 

Mar.  An  if  my  father  please,  I  am  content. 

Suf.    Then  call  our  captains,  and  our  colours, 
forth : 
And,  madam,  at  your  father's  castle  walls 
We  '11  crave  a  parley,  to  confer  with  him. 

\Troo'ps  come  forward. 

A  Parley  sounded.    Enter  Reignier,  on  the  Walls. 

Suf.  See,  Reignier,  see,  thy  daughter  prisoner. 

Beig.  To  whom  ? 

Suf.  To  me. 

Reig.  Suffolk,  what  remedy  ? 

I  am  a  soldier ;  and  unapt  to  weep. 
Or  to  exclaim  on  fortune's  fickleness. 

Suf.  Yes,  there  is  remedy  enough,  my  lord  :, 
Consent,  (and,  for  thy  honour,  give  consent,) 
Thy  daughter  shall  be  wedded  to  my  king ; 
Whom  I  with  pain  have  woo'd  and  won  thereto ; 
And  this  her  easy-held  imprisonment 
Hath  gain'd  thy  daughter  princely  liberty. 

Reig.  Speaks  Suffolk  as  he  thinks  ? 

Suf.  Fair  Margaret  knows. 

That  Suffolk  doth  not  flatter,  face,  or  feign. 

Reig.  Upon  thy  princely  warrant,  I  descend, 
To  give  thee  answer  of  thy  just  demand. 

[Exit,  from  the  Walls. 

Suf.  And  here  I  will  expect  thy  coming. 

Trumpets  sounded.     Enter  Reignier,  helow. 

Reig.  Welcome,  brave  earl,  into  our  territories ; 
^mmand  in  Anjou  what  your  honour  pleases. 
Suf.    Thanks,  Reignier,  happy  for  so  sweet  a 
child, 
894 


Fit  to  be  made  companion  with  a  king : 
What  answer  makes  your  grace  unto  my  suit  ? 

Reig,    Since  thou  dost  deign  to  woo  her  littla 
worth, 
To  be  the  princely  bride  of  such  a  lord ; 
Upon  condition  I  may  quietly 
Enjoy  mine  own,  the  county  Maine,  and  Anjou, 
Free  from  oppression,  or  the  stroke  of  war. 
My  daughter  shall  be  Henry's,  if  he  please. 

Suf.  That  is  her  ransom,  I  deliver  her ; 
And  those  two  counties,  I  will  undertake, 
Your  grace  shall  well  and  quietly  enjoy. 

Reig.  And  I  again, — in  Henry's  royal  name, 
As  deputy  unto  that  gracious  king. 
Give  thee  her  hand,  for  sign  of  plighted  faith. 

Suf.  Reignier  of  France,  I  give  thee  kingly 
thanks, 
Because  this  is  in  traffic  of  a  king ; 
And  yet,  methiuks,  I  could  be  well  content 
To  be  mine  own  attorney  in  this  case.         [Aside 
I  '11  over  then  to  England  with  this  news. 
And  make  this  marriage  to  be  solemniz'd ; 
So,  farewell,  Reignier  I  Set  this  diamond  safe 
In  golden  palaces,  as  it  becomes. 

Reig.  I  do  embrace  thee,  as  I  would  embrace 
The  Christian  prince,  king  Henry,  were  he  here. 

Mar.  Farewell,  my  lord !  Good  wishes,  praise, 
and  prayers. 
Shall  Suffolk  ever  have  of  Margaret.  [Going. 

Suf.    Farewell,  sweet  madam  !   But  hark  you, 
Margaret ; 
No  princely  commendations  to  m}'  king  ? 

Mar.  Such  commendations  as  become  a  maid, 
A  virgin,  and  his  servant,  say  to  him. 

Suf.    Words  sweetly  plac'd,  and  modestly  di- 
rected. 
But,  madam,  I  must  trouble  you  again, — 
No  loving  token  to  his  majesty? 

Mar.    Yes,  my  good  lord ;  a  pure  unspotted 
heart. 
Never  yet  taint  with  love,  I  send  the  king. 

Suf.  And  this  withal.  [Kisses  her. 

Mar.  That  for  thvself ; — I  will  not  so  presume, 
To  send  such  peevish  tokens  to  a  king. 

[Exeunt  Reig.  and  Mar. 

Siif  0,  wert  thou  for  myself! — But,  Suffolk, 
stay ; 
Thou  may'st  not  wander  in  that  labyrinth ; 
There  Minotaurs,  and  ugly  treasons,  lurk. 
Solicit  Henry  with  her  wond'rous  praise  : 
Bethink  thee  on  her  virtues  that  surmount. 
Mid  natural  graces  that  extinguish  art ; 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


Repeat  their  semblance  often  on  the  seas, 
That,  when  thou  com'st  to  kneel  at  Henry's  feet. 
Thou  may'st  bereave  him  of  his  wits  with  wonder. 

[JExit. 

SCENE  IV. —  Camp  of  the  Duke  of  York,  in  Anjou. 
Miter  York,  Warwick,  and  Others. 

York.  Bring  forth  that  sorceress,  conderan'd  to 
burn. 

^nter  La  Pucelle,  guarded,  and  a  Shepherd. 

Shep.  Ah,  Joan !  this  kills  thy  father's  heart 
outright ! 
Have  I  sought  every  country  far  and  near, 
And,  now  it  is  ray  chance  to  find  thee  out. 
Must  I  behold  thy  timeless  cruel  death  ? 
Ah,  Joan !  sweet  daughter  Joan,  I  '11  die  with  thee ! 

Puc.  Decrepit  miser!"  base  ignoble  wretch  ! 
I  am  descended  of  a  gentler  blood  ; 
Thou  art  no  father,  nor  no  friend,  of  mine. 

Shep.  Out,  out ! — My  lords,  an  please  you,  't  is 
not  so ; 
I  did  beget  her,  all  the  paiish  knows; 
Her  mother  liveth  yet,  can  testify. 
She  was  the  first  fruit  of  my  bachelorship. 

War.  Graceless  ;  wilt  thou  deny  thy  parentage? 

York.  This  argues  what  her  kind  of  life  hath 
been ; 
Wicked  and  vile ;  and  so  her  death  concludes. 

Shep.  Fie,  Joan  !  that  thou  wilt  be  so  obstacle  I** 
God  knows,  thou  art  a  collop  of  my  flesh ; 
And  for  thy  sake  have  I  shed  many  a  tear : 
Deny  me  not,  I  pr'ythee,  gentle  Joan. 

Puc.    Peasant,    avaunt ! — You    have   suborn'd 
this  man. 
Of  purpose  to  obscure  my  noble  birth. 

Shep.  'T  is  true,  I  gave  a  noble  to  the  priest, 
The  morn  that  I  was  wedded  to  her  mother. — 
Kneel  down  and  take  my  blessing,  good  my  girl. 
Wilt  thou  not  stoop  ?  Now  cursed  be  the  time 
Of  thy  nativity  !  I  would,  the  milk 
Thy  mother  gave  thee,  when  thou  suck'dst  her 

breast, 
Had  been  a  little  ratsbane  for  thy  sake ! 
Or  else,  when  thou  didst  keep  my  lambs-a-field, 
I  wish  some  ravenous  wolf  had  eaten  thee  ! 
Dsst  thou  deny  thy  father,  cursed  drab  ? 
O,  burr  her,  burn  her ;  hanging  is  too  good.  [Exit. 

York.  Take  her  away;  for  she  hath  liv'd  too 
long, 
To  fill  the  world  with  vicious  qualities. 


Puc.  First,  let  me  tell  you  whom  you  have  jon- 
demn'd : 
Not  me  begotten  of  a  shepherd  swain,** 
But  issu'd  from  the  progeny  of  kings ; 
Virtuous,  and  holy ;  chosen  from  above. 
By  inspiration  of  celestial  grace, 
To  work  exceeding  miracles  on  earth. 
I  never  had  to  do  with  wicked  spirits : 
But  you, — that  are  polluted  with  your  lusts, 
Stain'd  with  the  guiltless  blood  of  innocents, 
Corrupt  and  tainted  with  a  thousand  vices, — 
Because  you  want  the  grace  that  others  have. 
You  judge  it  straight  a  thing  impossible 
To  compass  wonders,  but  by  help  of  devils. 
No,  misconceived  1  Joan  of  Arc  hath  been 
A  virgin  from  her  tender  infancy. 
Chaste  and  immaculate  in  every  thought; 
Whose  maiden  blood,  thus  rigorously  efi"us'd. 
Will  cry  for  vengeance  at  the  gates  of  heaven. 

Yoi-k.  Ay,  ay ; — away  with  her  to  execution. 

War.  And  hark  ye,  sirs  ;  because  she  is  a  maid, 
Spare  for  no  fagots,  let  there  be  enough  : 
Place  barrels  of  pitch  upon  the  fatal  stake, 
That  so  her  torture  may  be  shortened. 

Puc.    Will    nothing    turn    your    unrelenting 
hearts  ? — 
Then,  Joan,  discover  thine  infirmity; 
That  warranteth  by  law  to  be  thy  privilege.— 
I  am  with  child,  ye  bloody  homicides  : 
Murder  not  then  the  fruit  within  my  womb. 
Although  ye  hale  me  to  a  violent  death. 

York.   Now  heaven  forefend !    the  holy  maid 
with  child  ? 

War.  The  greatest  miracle  that  e'er  ye  wrought : 
Is  all  your  strict  preciseness  come  to  this  ? 

York.  She  and  the  Dauphin  have  been  juggling: 
I  did  imagine  what  would  be  her  refuge. 

War.  Well,  go  to ;  we  will  have  no  bastards 
live; 
Especially,  since  Charles  must  father  it. 

Puc.  You  are  deceiv'd;  my  child  is  none  of  his; 
It  was  Alen^on,  that  enjoy'd  my  love. 

York.  Alen9on  I  that  notorious  Machiavel  I""^ 
It  dies,  an  if  it  had  a  thousand  lives. 

Puc.  0,  give  me  leave,  I  have  deluded  you ; 
'T  was  neither  Charles,  nor  yet  the  duke  I  nam'd,. 
But  Reignier,  king  of  Naples,  that  prevail'd. 

War.  A  married  man  !  that 's  most  intolerable. 

York.  Why,  here  's  a  girl !  I  think  she  knows 
not  well. 
There  were  so  many,  whom  she  may  accuse. 

War.  It 's  sign,  she  hath  been  liberal  and  free. 

8»6 


ACT  V. 


FIRST  PART  OF 


SCEXK    IV. 


York.  And  yet,  forsooth,  she  is  a  virgin  pure. — 
Strumpet,  thy  words  condemn  thy  brat,  and  thee : 
Use  no  entreaty,  for  it  is  in  vain. 

Ptic.  Then  lead  me  hence ; — with  whom  I  leave 
my  curse : 
May  never  glorious  sun  reflex  his  beams 
Upon  the  country  where  you  make  abode! 
But  darkness  and  the  gloomy  shade  of  death 
Environ  you ;  till  mischief,  and  despair. 
Drive  you  to  break  your  necks,  or  hang  yourselves! 

[Exit,  guarded. 

York.  Break  thou  in  pieces,  and  consume  to 


Thou  foul  accursed  minister  of  hell  1 

Enter  Cardinal  Beadfokt,  attended. 

Car.  Lord  regent,  I  do  greet  your  excellence 
With  letters  of  commission  from  the  king. 
For  know,  my  lords,  the  states  of  Christendom, 
Mov'd  with  remorse  of  these  outrageous  broils. 
Have  earnestly  implor'd  a  general  peace 
Betwixt  our  nation  and  the  aspiring  French  ; 
And  here  at  hand  the  Dauphin,  and  his  train, 
Approacheth,  to  confer  about  some  matter. 

York.  Is  all  our  travail  turn'd  to  this  elFect  ? 
After  the  slaughter  of  so  many  peers. 
So  many  captains,  gentlemen,  and  soldiers, 
That  in  this  quarrel  have  been  overthrown, 
And  sold  their  bodies  for  their  country's  benefit, 
Shall  we  at  last  conclude  effeminate  peace  ? 
Have  we  not  lost  most  part  of  all  the  towns. 
By  treason,  falsehood,  and  by  treachery. 
Our  great  progenitors  had  conquer'd  ? — 
O,  Warwick,  Warwick !  I  foresee  with  grief 
The  utter  loss  of  all  the  realm  of  France. 

War.  Be  patient,  York  :  if  we  conclude  a  peace, 
[t  shall  be  with  such  strict  and  severe  covenants, 
As  little  shall  the  Frenchmen  gain  thereby. 

Enter  Charles,  attended  ;  Alenqon,  Bastard, 
Reignier,  and  Others. 

Char.  Since,  lords  of  England,  it  is  thus  agreed. 
That  peaceful  truce  shall  be  proclaim'd  in  France, 
We  come  to  be  informed  by  yourselves 
What  the  conditions  of  that  league  must  be. 

York.  Speak,  Winchester;  for  boiling  choler 
chokes 
The  hollow  passage  of  my  poi^on'd  voice,^' 
By  sight  of  these  our  baleful  enemies. 

Win.  Charles,  and  the  rest,  it  is  enacted  thus : 
That — in  regard  king  Henry  gives  consent. 
Of  mere  compassion,  and  of  lenity, 
896 


To  ease  your  country  of  distressful  war. 
And  suffer  you  to  breathe  in  fruitful  peace, — 
You  shall  become  true  liegemen  to  his  crown  : 
And,  Charles,  upon  condition  thou  wilt  swear 
To  pay  him  tribute,  and  submit  thyself, 
Thou  shalt  be  plac'd  as  viceroy  under  him. 
And  still  enjoy  thy  regal  dignity. 

Alen.  Must  he  be  then  as  shadow  of  himself? 
Adorn  his  tem'-ics  with  a  coronet; 
And  yet,  in  substance  and  authority. 
Retain  but  privilege  of  a  private  man? 
This  proffer  is  absurd  and  reasonless. 

Char.  'T  is  known,  already,  that  I  am  possess  d 
With  more  than  half  the  Gallian  territories. 
And  therein  reverenc'd  for  their  lawful  king : 
Shall  I,  for  lucre  of  the  rest  unvanquish'd, 
Detract  so  much  from  that  prerogative, 
As  to  be  call'd  but  viceroy  of  the  whole  ? 
No,  lord  ambassador ;  I  '11  rather  keep 
That  which  I  have,  than,  coveting  for  more. 
Be  cast  from  possibility  of  all. 

York.   Insulting  Charles !   hast  thou  by  secret 
means 
Used  intercession  to  obtain  a  league ; 
And,  now  the  matter  grows  to  compromise, 
Stand'st  thou  aloof  upon  comparison  ? 
Either  accept  the  title  thou  usurp'st. 
Of  benefit  proceeding  from  our  king,'" 
And  not  of  any  challenge  of  desert, 
Or  we  will  plague  thee  with  incessant  wars. 

Heig.  My  lord,  you  do  not  well  in  obstinacy 
To  cavil  in  the  course  of  this  contract : 
If  once  it  be  neglected,  ten  to  one. 
We  shall  not  find  like  opportunity. 

Alen.  To  say  the  truth,  it  is  your  policy, 
To  save  your  subjects  from  such  massacre. 
And  ruthless  slaughters,  as  are  daily  seen 
By  our  proceeding  in  hostility  : 
And  therefore  take  this  compact  of  a  truce. 
Although  you  break  it  when  your  pleasure  servea. 

[Aside,  to  Char. 

War.  How  say'st  thou,  Charles  ?  shall  our  con- 
dition stand  ? 

Char.  It  shall : 
Only  reserv'd,  you  claim  no  interest 
In  any  of  our  towns  of  garrison. 

York.  Then  swear  allegiance  to  his  majesty; 
As  thou  art  knight,  never  to  disobey. 
Nor  be  rebellious  to  the  crown  of  England, 
Thou,  nor  thy  nobles,  to  the  crown  of  England, — 
[Char.,  and  the  rest,  give  Tokens  of  fealty. 
So,  now  dismiss  your  army  when  ye  please ; 


ACT    V. 


^inct  hexry  the  sixth. 


SCENE   V. 


Hang  up  your  ensigns,  let  your  drums  be  still, 
For  here  we  entertain  a  solemn  peace. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  in  conference  with  Suffolk; 
Gloster  and  'EiHtsifm  following. 

K.  Ilcn.  Your  wond'rous  rare  description,  noble 
earl, 
Of  beauteous  Margaret  hath  astonish'd  me  : 
Her  virtues,  graced  with  external  gifts. 
Do  breed  love's  settled  passions  in  my  heart : 
And  like  as  rigour  in  tempestuous  gusts 
Provokes  the  mightiest  hulk  against  the  tide ; 
So  am  I  driven,  by  breath  of  her  renown. 
Either  to  suffer  shipwreck,  or  arrive 
Where  I  may  have  fruition  of  her  love. 

Suf.  Tush  !  my  good  lord  I  this  superficial  tale 
Is  but  a  preface  of  her  worthy  praise  : 
The  chief  perfections  of  that  lovely  dame, 
(Had  I  sufficient  skill  to  utter  them,) 
Would  make  a  volume  of  enticing  lines, 
Able  to  ravish  any  dull  conceit. 
And,  which  is  more,  she  is  not  so  divine. 
So  full  replete  with  choice  of  all  delights. 
But,  with  as  humble  lowliness  of  mind, 
She  is  content  to  be  at  your  command ; 
vJommand,  I  mean,  of  virtuous  chaste  intents. 
To  love  and  honour  Heni-y  as  her  lord.. 

K.  Hen.    And  otherwise  will  Henry  ne'er  pre- 
sume. 
Therefore,  mv  lord  protector,  give  consent, 
That  Margaret  may  be  England  s  royal  queen. 

Glo.  So  should  I  give  consent  to  flatter  sin. 
You  know,  my  lord,  your  highness  is  betroth'd 
Unto  another  lady  of  esteem  ; 
How  shall  we  then  dispense  with  that  contract. 
And  not  deface  your  honour  with  reproach  ? 

Suf  As  doth  a  ruler  with  unlawful  oaths ; 
Or  one,  that,  at  a  triumph  having  vow'd 
To  try  his  strength,  forsaketh  yet  the  lists 
By  reason  of  his  adversary's  odds  : 
A  poor  earl's  daughter  is  unequal  odds. 
And  therefore  may  be  broke  without  offence. 

Glo.  Why,  what,  I  pray,  is  Margaret  more  than 
that  ? 
Her  father  is  no  better  than  an  earl, 
Although  m  glorious  titles  he  excel. 

Suf  Yes,  my  good  lord,  her  father  is  a  king, 
The  king  of  Naples,  and  Jerusalem  ; 
And  of  such  great  authority  in  France, 


As  his  alliance  will  confirm  our  peace, 
And  keep  the  Frenchmen  in  allegiance. 

Glo.  And  so  the  earl  of  Armagnac  may  do. 
Because  he  is  near  kinsman  unto  Charles. 

3xe.    Beside,  his  wealth  doth  warrant  liberal 

dower ; 
While  Keignier  sooner  will  receive,  than  give. 
Suf  A  dower,  my  lords  !  disgrace  not  so  your 

king. 
That  he  should  be  so  abject,  base,  and  poor. 
To  choose  for  wealth,  and  not  for  perfect  love. 
Henry  is  able  to  enrich  his  queen. 
And  not  to  seek  a  queen  to  make  him  rich : 
So  worthless  peasants  bargain  for  their  wives, 
As  market-men  for  oxen,  sheep,  or  horse. 
Marriage  is  a  matter  of  more  worth. 
Than  to  bo  dealt  in  by  attorneyship ; 
Not  whom  we  will,  but  whom  his  grace  affects, 
Must  be  companion  of  his  nuptial  bed  : 
And  therefore,  lords,  since  he  affects  her  most, 
It  most  of  all  these  reasons  bindeth  us, 
In  our  opinions  she  should  be  preferr'-d. 
For  what  is  wedlock  forced,  but  a  hell, 
An  age  of  discord  and  continual  strife  ? 
Whereas  the  contrary  bringeth  forth  bliss, 
And  is  a  pattern  of  celestial  peace. 
Whom  should  we  match,    with  Henry,   nciiiQ    i. 

king, 
But  Margaret,  that  is  daughter  to  a  Ving  ? 
Her  peerless  feature,  joined  with  her  birili. 
Approves  her  fit  for  none,  but  for  a  king: 
Her  valiant  courage,  and  undaunted  spirit, 
(More  than  in  women  commonly  is  seen,) 
Will  answer  our  hope  in  issue  of  a  king  , 
For  Henry,  son  unto  a  conqueror, 
Is  likely  to  beget  more  conquerors, 
If  with  a  lady  of  so  high  resolve. 
As  is  fair  Margaret,  he  be  link'd  in  love. 
Then  yield,  my  lords  ;  and  here  conclude  with  me, 
That  Margaret  shall  be  queen,  and  none  but  she. 
K.  Hen.  Whether  it  be  through  force  of  your 

report, 
My  noble  lord  of  Sufl'olk ;  or  for  that 
My  tender  youth  was  never  yet  attaint 
With  any  passion  of  inflaming  love, 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  am  assur'd, 
I  feel  such  sharp  dissension  in  my  breast. 
Such  fierce  alarums  both  of  hope  and  fear, 
As  I  am  sick  with  working  of  my  thoughts. 
Take,  therefore,  shipping;  post,  my  lord,  to  France; 
Agree  to  any  covenants  :  and  procure 
That  lady  Margaret  do  vouchsafe  to  come 

897 


ACT    V. 


FIRST  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIX  IX 


8CEKK   V. 


To  cross  the  seas  to  England,  and  be  crown'd 
King  Henry's  foithful  and  anointed  queen  : 
For  your  expenses  and  sufficient  charge, 
Among  the  people  gather  up  a  tenth. 
Be  gone,  I  say ;  for,  till  you  do  return, 
I  rest  perplexed  with  a  thousand  cares.— 
A.ja  you,  good  uncle,  banish  all  offence : 
If  yo'u  do  censure  me  by  what  you  were. 
Not  what  you  are,  I  know  it  will  excuse 
This  sudden  execution  of  my  will. 
An  I  B!>  conduct  me,  where  from  company, 


I  may  revolve  and  ruminate  my  grief.  [Uxit. 

Glo.  Ay,  grief,  I  fear  me,  both  at  first  and  last. 
[Exeunt  Glo.  and  Exe. 

Suf.  Thus  Suffolk  hath  prevail'd  :  and  thus  he 
goes, 
As  did  the  youthful  Paris  once  to  Greece ; 
With  hope  to  find  the  like  event  in  love. 
But  prosper  better  than  the  Trojan  did. 
Margaret  shall  now  be  queen,  and  rule  the  king  • 
But  I  will  rule  both  her,  the  king,  and  realm. 


NOTES  TO  KING  HEIM  THE  SIXTH. 


(PART   THE   FIRST.) 


•  The  Earl  of  Warwick, 

This  nobleman  is  Eicliard  Beauchamp,  who  is  a  charac- 
ter in  Henry  the  Fifth.  The  earl  who  appears  in  the  sub- 
sequent part  of  the  play  is  Richard  Nevil,  the  son  of  the 
Earl  of  Salisbury,  who  became  possessed  of  the  title  in 
right  of  his  wife,  Anne,  sjster  of  Henry  Beauchamp,  Duke 
of  Warwick,  on  the  death  of  Anne,  his  only  child,  in  1449. 
Thus  the  second  earl  is  son-in-law  to  the  first.  Mr.  Ritson 
says  there  is  no  reason  to  think  that  the  author  meant  to 
confound  the  two  characters.  What  the  poet  meant  to  do, 
it  is  difficult  to  decide;  but  he  has  certainly  not  given  us 
to  understand  that  two  distinct  persons  are  referred  to  by 
the  title  of  Earl  of  Warwick. 


*  Rung  be  the  heavens  with  hlack. 

Wlien  a  tragedy  was  to  be  performed  in  our  poet's  time, 
t';ia  otage  was  hung  with  black,  to  prepare  the  spectators 
for  a  solemn  exhibition. 


The  had  revolting  stars. 


Tliat  have  consented  unto  Henry's  death. 

Consented,  or  more  properly,  concented,  means,  have  dis- 
posed themselves  into  a  malignant  configuration,  to  pro- 
mote the  death  of  Fenry. 

*  Our  isle  be  made  a  nourish  of  salt  tears. 

Pope  reads,  a  marish  of  salt  tears ;  marish  being  an  old 
word  for  marsh  or  fen. 

»  Tham,  Julius  Ccesar,  or  bright 

This  imperfect  line  probably  arose  from  the  compositor 
being  unable  to  read  the  word,  and  so  leaving  it  blank,  in 
which  state,  by  a  negligence  not  uncommon  in  those  days, 
it  was  printed.  Dr.  Johnson  suggests  that  it  should  have 
read, — or  bright  Berenice. 

0  If  Sir  John  Fastolfe. 

This  Sir  John  must  not  be  confounded  with  Shakes- 
peare's fat  and  merry  knight  Falstaff.  fastolfe  was  an 
historical  character,  mention  of  whom  may  be  found  both 
in  Hall  and  Holinshed ;  Falstatf  was  merely  a  creation  of 
the  poet's  brain :  though  it  is  more  than  probabl*  that  the 


imputed  cowardice  of  the  former  suggested  to  Shakes- 
peare the  name  of  the  latter.  Sir  John  Fastolfe,  though 
degraded  for  cowardice,  was  afterwards  restored  to  hih 
knighthood,  it  being  considered  he  was  justified  in  his 
conduct.  He  is  elsewhere  described  as  a.  wise  and  valiant 
captain.  In  the  eighteenth  song  of  iDrayton's  Foh/olbion. 
he  is  thus  alluded  to: — ■ 

Strong  Fastolph  with  this  man  compare  we  justly  may 
By  Salsbury  who  oft  being  seriously  imploy'd 
In  many  a  brave  attempt  the  general  foe  annoy'd  ; 
With  excellent  successe  in  Main  and  Anjou  fought, 
And  many  a  bulwark  there  into  our  keeping  brought, 
And  chosen  to  go  forth  with  Vadaraont  in  warre, 
Most  resolutely  tooke  proud  Renate.  duke  of  Bafrt. 

'  England  all  Olivers  and  Rowlands  bred. 

That  is,  England  bred  nothing  but  heroes ;  Oliver  and 
Rowland  being  two  of  the  most  famous  of  Charlemagne's 
twelve  peers. 

»  Bastard  of  Orleans,  thrice  welcome  to  us. 

In  former  times  bastard  was  not  a  term  of  reproach ; 
one  of  William  the  Conqueror's  charters  begins  thus,— 
'■'■Ego  Grulielmus  cognomento  Bastardus.''''  Tlie  ancients  also 
held  illegitimate  children  in  no  disrepute  ;  they  would  not 
brand  the  son  for  the  error  of  the  father. 

»  Exceeding  the  nine  sibyls  of  old  Koine. 

This  is  an  error :  he  means  the  nine  books  of  oracles 
which  a  sibyl  brought  and  offered  for  a  large  sum  to  ona 
of  the  Tarquins. 

10  Was  Mahomet  inspired  with  a  dove  ? 

This  extraordinary  enthusiast  or  impostor  had  a  dove 
which  used  at  times  to  alight  on  his  shoulder  and  put  its 
bill  in  his  ear,  and  the  "prophet"  persuaded  the  deluded 
people  tb.at  it  was  the  Holy  Ghost,  who  in  that  form  gave 
him  advice.  Others  have  said  that  he  placed  peas  or  wheat 
in  his  ear,  and  that  the  bird,  when  hungry,  went  there  for 
a  meal. 

"  Nor  yet  Saint  Philip's  daughters  were  lihe  thee. 

The  daughters  of  Philip  the  Evangelist,  mentioned  iu 

899 


NOTES  TO  THE  FIRST  PART  OF 


Acts  xxi.,  V.  9. — "  And  the  same  man  had  four  daughters, 
virgins,  which  did  prophesy." 

"  Sin.  '4  Henry's  death,  J  fear  there  is  conveyance. 

Oonveyance,  is  theft ;  Gloucester  doubts  the  honesty  and 
fidelity  of  tlie  governor. 


.    Poeled, 


"  PieVd  priest. 

PiefM  was  an  ancient  mode  of  spelling 
alluding  to  his  shaven  crown. 


»«  Thou  that  giv'st  whores  indulgiences  to  sin. 

Brothels  were  anciently  under  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
Bishop  of  Winchester ;  hence  a  strumpet  was  called  a  Win- 
chester goose. 

1*  I'll  canvas  th^e  in  thy  broad  cardinaVs  hat. 

Mr.  Steevens  thinks  that  this  means — I  '11  tumble  thee 
into  thy  great  hat,  and  shake  thee,  as  bran  and  meal 
are  shaken  in  a  sieve.  Gloucester,  however,  may  mean 
that  he  will  toss  the  priest  in  a  sheet,  even  while  he 
was  invested  with  the  peculiar  badge  of  his  ecclesiasti- 
cal dignity.  Coarse  sheets  were  formerly  termed  canvas 
sheets.  It  should  be  observed  that  Winchester  is  not  yet 
a  cardinal ;  he  does  not  appear  as  a  cardinal  until  the  fifth 
act  of  the  play. 

••  This  he  Damascus,  he  thou  cursed  Gain. 

About  four  miles  from  Damascus  is  a  lofty  hill  which  a 
tradition  avers  to  be  the  same  on  which  Cain  slew  his 
brother  Abel.  Thus,  in  Sir  John  Maundeville's  Travels : 
"  And  in  that  place  where  Damascus  was  founded,  Kaym 
sloughe  Ahel  his  brother." 

•^  For  I  intend  to  have  it,  ere  long. 

This  is  a  hard  and  unmusical  line  ;  the  metre  would  be 
rendered  perfect  by  reading, — yet  ere  long. 

>*  Sopii'd  esteemed. 

This  phrase  has  no  discernible  meaning ;  some  have 
conjectured  that  the  autlior  wrote  vile-estesmed,  and  Mr. 
Steevens  thinks  it  probable  that  we  should  read  —  so 
Fhilistin'd,  i.  e.  treated  with  scorn  and  degradation,  as 
Sampson  was  by  the  Philistines. 

"  Blood  will  I  draw  on  thee,  tliou  art  a  witch. 

Tt  was  a  superstition  of  the  poet's  time  that  he  who 
90uld  shed  the  blood  of  a  witch  was  free  from  her 
power. 

"  Tham>  Rhodope's,  or  Memphis'',  ever  was. 

Ehodope  was  a  celebrated  courtezan  who  by  her  beauty 
and  fascination  acquired  immense  riches.  She  was  born 
at  Tlirace,  and  was  a  slave  in  the  same  house, with  ./Esop 
the  famous  fabulist.  The  brother  of  Sappho  having  fallen 
in  love  with  her,  purcha.sed  her  freedom  at  a  great  price. 
She  is  said  afterwards  to  have  married  Psammetichus, 
king  of  Egypt,  and  the  smallest  but  most  finished  of  the 
pyramids  was  built  by  her.  Allusion  is  made  to  her  in 
the  play  of  The  Oostly  IVh  >re,  1GS3 :-  - 
900 


•  A  base  Jihodope, 


Whose  body  is  as  common  as  the  sea 
In  the  receipt  of  every  lustful  spring. 

*»  Tha?i  the  rich-jeweWd  coffer  of  Darius. 

When  Alexander  the  Great  had  taken  Gaza,  the  me- 
tropolis of  Syria,  he  found  among  the  treasures  of  Darius 
contained  in  the  city,  a  small  chest  or  casket  of  trreat 
value  and  exquisite  beauty  of  Avorkmanship.  All  the 
generals  who  were  around  him  having  expressed  theii 
admiration  of  it,  Alexander  asked  what  they  thought  best 
fitted  to  be  contained  in  it  ?  After  each  had  delivered  his 
opinion,  the  conqueror  said  that  he  esteemed  nothing  so 
worthy  to  be  preserved  in  it  as  Homer's  Iliad.  Pliny  tells 
us  that  this  casket,  when  found,  was  full  of  precious  oils, 
and  was  decorated  with  jewels  of  immense  value. 

*"  Then  say  at  once,  if  I 'maintain' d  the  truth  ; 
Or  else  was  wrangling  Somerset  in  the  error  ? 

This  passage  is  confused ;  if  Plantagenet  was  right,  of 
course  Somerset  was  wrong  ;  we  should  read  : — 

Or  else  was  wrangling  Somerset  V  tV  right? 

Or,- 

And  was  not  wrangling  Somerset  in  the  error ' 

"  His  grandfather  was  Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence. 

This  statement  is  incorrect.  Plantagenet's  paternal 
grandfather  was  Edmund  of  Langley,  duke  of  York.  His 
maternal  grandfather  was  Roger  Mortimer,  earl  of  March, 
who  was  the  son  of  Phllippa,  the  daughter  of  Lionel, 
duke  of  Clarence.  The  duke  was  therefore  his  maternal 
ffrcat-irreat-tfrandfather. 


'<  Enter  Mortimer. 

Shakespeare  has  fallen  into  error  by  introducing  Morti- 
mer dying  in  confinement  in  the  Tower.  Edmund  Morti- 
mer.served  under  Henry  the  Fifth,  revealed  to  that  king 
the  plot  to  assassinate  him  formed  by  Citmbridge,  Scroop, 
and  Grey,  at  Southampton,  and  followed  the  king  in  his 
expedition  to  France.  At  the  coronation  of  Queen  Kathe- 
rine  he  attended  and  held  the  sceptre.  Soon  after  the  ac- 
cession of  Henry  the  Sixth,  he  was  appointed  chief  gover- 
nor of  Ireland,  and  he  finally  died  there  in  his  castle  at 
Trim,  in  January,  1424-5. 

»*  Depos'd  his  nephew  Bichard. 

Bolingbroke  was  Eichard's  cousin,  not  his  nephew. 
In  Shakespeare's  time  a  nephew  was  sometimes  called 
cousin ;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  a  cousin  was  ever 
called  a  nephew. 

J«  Levied  an  army. 

This  is  another  historical  error.  The  earl  of  Cambridge 
did  no  such  thing ;  he  entered  into  a  plot  to  assassinate 
Henry  the  Fifth,  as  correctly  described  in  Act  ii.,  se.  2,  of 
that  play.  The  old  play  on  which  Shakespeare  founded 
his  Henry  the  Sixth,  Part  1.,  contained  these  errors,  and 
the  poet  negligently  followed  them.  At  that  time  he  him- 
self might  have  known  no  better,  as  Henry  the  Fifth 
was  written  at  a  later  period,  and  when  the  poet  had  be- 
i  come  familiar  with  the  chronicles  of  Holinshed. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


*T  Thou  hastard  of  my  grandfather. 

The  bishop  of  Winchester  was  an  illegitimate  son  of 
John  of  Gaunt,  duke  of  Lancaster,  by  Katherine  Swyn- 
ford,  yhom  the  duke  afterwards  married. 

'8  The  hishop  haih,  a  kindly  gird. 

A  kindly  gird  is  probably  a  gentle  rebuke.  "Warwick 
means  that  the  king  had  blamed  the  bishop  with  great  gen- 
tleness. 

*»  M)  way  to  tluitfor  weakness  which  she  enter'' d. 
That  is,  no  way  equal  to  that ;  no  way  so  fit  as  that. 

">  That  stout  Fendragon,  in  his  Utter. 

Pendragon  was  the  fatlier  of  King  Arthur,  and  esteemed 
a  great  hero.  He  caused  himself  to  bo  carried  with  his 
army  in  a  litter  when  he  was  too  ill  to  fight;  and  his 
presence  so  encouraged  his  soldiers  that  they  won  the 
victory.  Holinshed,  however,  attributes  this  exploit  to 
his  brother  Aurelius. 

8'  Whither  away,  Sir  John  Fastolfe,  in  such  haste  t 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  says  Mr.  Malone,  "  that  it  was  the 
exaggerated  representation  of  Sir  John  Fastolfe's  coward- 
ice which  the  author  of  this  play  ha«  given  (i.  e.,  the  old 
play  on  which  Shakespeare  founded  his)  that  induced 
Shakespeare  to  give  the  name  of  Falstaff  to  his  knight. 
Sir  John  Fastolfe  did  indeed  fly  at  the  battle  oi  Patay,  in 
the  year  1429  ;  and  is  reproached  by  Talbot  in  a  subse- 
quent scene  for  liia  conduct  on  that  occasion ;  but  no  his- 
torian has  said  that  he  fled  i)efore  Eouen." 

"  Dies,  and  is  carried  off  in  his  chair. 

The  Duke  of  Bedford  died  at  Rouen,  but  not  in  any  ac- 
tion before  the  town.  He  was  buried  in  the  cathedral 
there.  Mr.  Hume  says  he  was  "  a  prince  of  great  abilities, 
and  of  many  virtues ;  and  whose  memory,  except  from 
the  barbarous  execution  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans,  was  un- 
sullied by  any  considerable  blemish."  He,  however,  is 
the  Prince  John,  who,  in  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  the 
Fourth,  Act  IV.,  so  treacherously  captures,  and  sends  to 
the  block,  the  Archbishop  of  York  and  the  peers  who  were 
joined  with  him  in  his  insurrection. 

**  Done  like  a  Frenchman ;  turn,  and  turn  again. 

This  satire  on  the  inconstancy  of  the  French  was,  no 
doubt,  much  enjoyed  by  English  audiences  of  the  poet's 
time ;  but  it  appears  very  inconsistent  to  place  it  in  the 
mouth  of  Joan,  who  would  scarcely  affront  Burgundy  to 
his  face  the  moment  she  had  won  his  alliance.  Dr.  John- 
son says — "  I  have  read  a  dissertation  written  to  prove 
that  the  index  of  the  wind  upon  our  steeples  was  made 
in  the  form  of  a  cock,  to  ridicule  the  French  for  their  fre- 
quent changes." 

3*  Ida  remember  how  my  father  said. 

This  play  abounds  in  historical  errors.  Henry  the  Sixth 
had  never  seen  his  father,  who  was  in  France  when  he 
WAS  born,  where  he  remained  until  his  death,  when  the 
young  Henry  was  but  nine  months  old. 


''  And  I  am  lowted  by  a  traitor  villain. 

Lowted  is  baffled  and  insulted;  treated  like  a  lowt,  oi 
low  country  fellow. 

'«  Winged  through  the  lither  sly. 

Liiher  is  the  comparative  of  the  adjective  litlie,  i.  e.,  flexi 
ble,  pliant,  yielding. 

''  A  giglot  wench. 

A  giglot  is  a  light  and  wantonly  disposed  woman,  or  a 
strumpet. 

S8  G-reat  earl  of  Washford. 
Washford  appears  to  be  a  corruption  of  WexforA. 

*»  But  from  their  ashes  sliall  be  reared. 

The  defect  in  the  metro  argues  that  some  word  has  been 
omitted  in  the  line ;  probably  honoured.  "  But  from  their 
honour'd  ashes,"  &c. 

i»  Immanity,  i.  e.,  barbarity,  savageness. 

"  Now  help,  ye  charming  spells,  and  periaptt. 

Periapts  were  amulets  or  charms  carried  about  the  per- 
son as  preservatives  against  disease  or  mischief.  Of  these 
the  first  chapter  of  St.  John's  Gospel  was  considered  the 
most  efficacious. 

"  Under  the  hrdly  monarch  of  the  north. 
"  The  monarch  of  the  north,"  says  Mr.  Douce,  "  was 
Zimimar,  one  of  the  four  principal  devils  invoked  by 
witches.  The  others  were  Amaimon,  king  of  the  east ; 
Gorson,  king  of  the  south  ;  and  Goap,  king  of  the  west. 
Under  these  devil  kings  were  devil  marquises,  dukes,  pre- 
lates, knights,  presidents,  and  earls.  They  are  all  enu- 
merated in  Scott's  iJi-scoverie  of  Witchcraft.'''' 

<=  Decrepit  miser. 

Miser  liere  does  not  mean  that  he  is  avaricious,  but  if 
used  in  its  obsolete  sense  of  a  v/retched  mean  person. 

**  Fie,  Joan  !  that  thou  wilt  be  so  obstacle. 
Obstacle  is  a  corruption  of  obstinate. 

«  Not  me  begotten  of  a  shepherd  swain 
Probably  the  poet  wrote,  not  one,  &c. 

*'  Alen^on  /  that  notorious  Machiavel. 

MacAiavel  is  mentioned  somewhat  before  this  time ;  but 
his  character  seems  to  have  made  so  deep  an  impression 
on  the  dramatic  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  that  he  is 
many  times  prematurely  spoken  of. 

*'  Of  my  poison' d  voice. 

Poisoned  voice  is  not  a  very  intelligible  phrase.  Pope 
rendu  prisoned  voice.  York's  voice  was  choked  with  paa- 
sion,  prisoned  in  his  throat. 

«8 Accept  the  title  thou  vsurp^st. 

Of  benefit  proceeding  from  our  king. 

That  is,  accept  the  title  of  king  of  France,  as  a  vassal  and 
dependent  upon  the  sovereign  of  England. 

901 


SECOND  PART   OF 


ling  Imij  tjir  lixtji. 


XN  perusing  this  play  we  seem  to  be  walking  among  covered  pitfalls:  the  snares  (f  treachery  ar« 
spread  in  all  directions;  every  noble  is  striving  for  supremacy,  and  each  exclaiming  on  the  am- 
bition of  the  rest.  The  drama  forms  a  dark  and  terrible  picture  of  the  wickedness  of  courts ;  for 
sophistry,  perjury,  and  murder  stain  nearly  every  character  ex(^pt  the  weak  king  and  the  "  good 
duke  Humphrey."  We  recoil  in  disgust  from  this  diabolical  exhibition  of  state-craft :  these  wily 
courtiers  play  for  the  crown  of  the  feeble  Henry  with  all  the  recklessness  of  ruined  gamblers :  they 
stake  body  and  soul  upon  the  cast,  or  rather  play  as  if  they  had  no  souls  to  lose.  The  poet  with 
all  the  ingenuity  of  youth,  scourges  hypocrisy  with  unsparing  vehemence,  treachery  is  made  trans- 
parent, and  the  great  struggle  for  self  rendered  obvious  and  disgusting  :  he  tears  aside  the  disguises 
of  patriotism  and  religion,  and  shows  us  the  human  fiends  concealed  beneath  them. 

This  drama  commences  with  the  marriage  of  Henry,  which  took  place  in  his  twenty-fourtli 
year ;  but  the  feebleness  of  infancy  had  not  given  way  to  the  strength  and  vigour  of  manhood  ;  and 
the  son  of  that  determined  prince,  who  was  regarded  by  the  people  with  affectionate  awe,  was  a 
gentle,  weak,  spiritless,  and  superstitious  man.  As  a  village  priest,  he  would  have  proved  a  valuable 
member  of  society ;  happy  would  it  have  been  for  him  and  England  had  he  been  born  to  such  a 
station ;  but  as  a  king  who  had  to  govern  a  powerful  and  insolent  nobility,  and  a  semi-barbarous 
people,  his  very  virtues  were  his  chief  defects.  In  those  times  a  strong  bad  man,  so  that  he  had 
judgment  enough  not  to  stretch  his  prerogative  too  far,  made  a  better  sovereign  than  a  weak  good 
man.  Where  much  power  attaches  to  the  crown,  a  feeble  king  is  worse  than  no  king;  for  the 
powers  of  government  are  wielded  by  any  hand  that  is  bold  enough  to  seize  them,  and  strong  enough 
to  guide  them.  Thus  with  Henry — Gloucester,  Beaufort,  Suffolk,  Somerset,  York,  and  Warwick, 
each  in  turn  influence  and  coerce  this  phantom  of  a  king,  "^he  mind  of  the  unfortunate  monarch 
was  worse  than  feeble,  it  was  diseased :  he  was  several  times  seized  with  an  extraordinary  apathy 
and  imbecility,  which  rendered  him  unfit  for  the  commonest  duties  of  life,  and  unconscious  of  the 
presence  or  inquiries  of  his  friends;  but  Shakespeare  has  not  alluded  to  this  mental  defect  in  his 
portraiture  of  the  unhappy  king. 

Margaret  of  Anjou  was  selected  by  the  cardinal  and  his  compeers  for  Henry  as  a  wife  calcu- 
lated to  rouse  him  into  greater  activity,  and  to  impart  to  him  some  of  the  decision  of  character  and 
strength  of  mind  that  she  possessed.  Added  to  great  personal  beauty  and  remarkable  vivacity,  she 
had  a  courageous  temper  and  masculine  intellect,  and  was  regarded  as  the  most  accomplished  woman 
of  her  age.  Her  pride  and  vind'"'"'veuess  of  temper  she  had  not  yet  revealed;  no  royal  state  or 
adverse  fortune  had  called  them  .ito  activity.  The  young  beauty  had  lived  in  comparative  seclusion, 
adding  accomplishments  to  natural  graces ;  and  it  was  thought,  with  much  probability,  that  when 
she  shared  the  throne  of  Henry,  she  would  increase  its  lustre,  and  elevate  the  character  of  its  occu- 
pant. Had  her  husband  possessed  a  sounder  judgment,  and  a  royalty  of  nature,  she  would  doubt- 
lesf  nave  fulfilled  these  hopes  respecting  her ;  but  Margaret  had  no  one  whose  influence  could  restrain 
in  her  those  arbitrary  doctrines  which  she  had  learnt  in  France,  and  attempted  to  apply  in  England, 
She  was  distinguished  by  a  haughtiness  greater  than  had  hitherto  been  assumed  by  any  of  our  native 
kings,  and  she  sank  into  unpopularity  and  dislike. 

tf08 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


Aft^r  Henry,  the  Duke  of  Gloster  is  the  most  amiable  character,  indeed  almost  the  only  one  not 
stained  with  treachery  and  crime ;  but  even  he  cannot  refrain  from  constant  and  unseemly  broils 
with  the  Cardinal  Beaufort.  The  last  surviving  brother  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  the  duke  was  the  idol 
of  the  people,  and  is  painted  by  the  poet  as  a  wise  and  honest  counsellor,  lie  was  a  great  patron  of 
literature  in  those  days ;  he  gave  a  valuable  library  to  the  University  of  Oxford,  and  invited  to  Eng- 
land an  Italian  histonan  named  Titus  Livius  Forojuliensis,  whom  he  appointed  his  poet  and  orator. 
The  incident  where  his  vain  and  ambitious  duchess  engages  the  assistance  of  necromancers  to  pro- 
phesy the  death  of  the  king  is  rendered  more  dramatic  than  natural  ;  in  a  play  professing  to  treat 
of  a  comparatively  modern  period  of  history,  satanic  agency  and  the  appearances  of  spirits  are  incon- 
sistent with  the  actual  events  enacted.  The  guilt  of  the  duchess  consisted  in  her  search  for  super- 
natural aid ;  and  here  perhaps  Shakespeare,  in  his  maturity,  would  have  paused ;  but  in  his  youtli 
before  he  knew  his  own  strength,  and  was  content  to  rely  entirely  upon  natural  incidents  for  effect, 
ho  omitted  no  opportunity  of  giving  to  his  play  the  character  of  a  spectacle,  and  crowding  into  it 
every  circumstance  likely  to  be  attractive  to  an  audience. 

The  incidents  in  this  drama  are  remarkably  varied,  and  follow  one  another  with  great  rapidity  : 
there  is  no  pause  in  the  action  ;  the  attention  is  never  suffered  to  flag ;  thus  Hume,  Bolingbroke,  and 
Mother  Jourdain,  have  no  sooner  been  arrested  for  sorcery,  than  we  are  transported  to  St.  Albans, 
and  witness  the  mirth-moving  miracle  performed  on  the  impostor  Simpcox  ;  the  humour  here  is  admi- 
rable— we  recognise  the  hand  that  in  after  days  drew  the  inimitable  Falstafi'.  The  characters  of  the 
whole  group  are  well  preserved  in  this  scene  ;  the  pious  and  simple  Henry  has  faith  in  the  sup- 
posed miracle,  and  bids  the  fellow  ever  devoutly  to  remember  what  the  Lord  has  done  for  him  ;  but 
the  more  subtle  courtiers  doubt  its  authenticity,  and  question  the  knave,  while  Gloucester  detects 
him  by  a  very  philosophical  process.  Had  he  been  born  blind,  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
him  to  have  distinguished  colours  immediately  upon  receiving  his  sight.  Queen  Margaret  laugha 
at  the  discovery,  but  Henry  mourns  at  the  duplicity  of  man. 

We  have  next  the  trial  by  combat  beween  the  armourer  Horner  and  his  'prentice,  Peter  Thump. 
Duels  of  this  character  are  of  great  antiquity,  and  in  tliera  the  vanquished  was  considered  to  be  the 
guilty  party.  Men  of  low  condition  were  not  permitted  to  fight  with  the  sword  or  lance — these  were 
honourable  weapons,  reserved  for  knights  and  nobles;  therefore  the  common  people  in  these  trials 
fought  with  an  ebon  staff,  at  the  end  of  which  was  fixed  a  bag  crammed  hard  with  sand,  which 
made  a  more  formidable  weapon  than  might  at  first  be  conceived,  and  one  with  which  a  ])oweiful 
man  might  easily  strike  his  opponent  dead.  With  this  instrument  the  timorous  Peter  kills  his 
master,  the  latter  having  drank  ro  freely  with  his  neighbours  as  to  be  incapable  of  defending 
himself. 

We  are  rr.;At  led  to  tlic  boJside  of  the  chief  murderer  of  the  unhappy  duke ;  the  great  cardinal 
has  been  seized  with  a  sudden  sickness, — 

That  makes  him  gasp,  and  stare,  and  catch  the  air, 
Blaspheming  God,  and  cursing  men  on  earth. 

Henry  approaches  the  dying  wretch,  who  is  perishing  in  the  fearful  recollection  of  his  unrepented 
sins,  and  who,  in  his  delirium,  beholds  the  spirit  of  the  murdered  duke,  whose  sightless  orbs  are 
bent  upon  him,  while  his  upright  hair  bespeaks  liis  dying  agony.  The  cardinal  is  convulsed  with 
the  pangs  of  death,  and  becomes  speechless,  when  the  king  conjures  him  to  give  some  sign  of  a  hope 
of  salvation.     The  turbulent  and  once  haughty  priest  dies  and  makes  no  sign. 

The  mind  is  recalled  from  dwelling  too  seriously  upon  the  terrible  incidents  just  alluded  to,  by 
the  introduction  of  Jack  Cade  and  the  Kentish  rebels.  Cade  was  not  a  native  of  Kent,  but  of  Ire- 
land, and  had  spent  some  time  in  France,  either  as  a  soldier  or  an  outlaw ;  his  great  courage  and 
hardihood  admirably  fitted  him  for  the  leader  of  a  popular  insurrection,  and  for  some  time  he 
preserved  great  order  among  his  rude  followers,  and  punished  them  for  theft  or  violence ;  but  the 
passions  of  an  excited  crowd  are  not  to  be  long  restrained,  and  they  soon  broke  out  into  furious 
excesses. 

The  insurrection  of  Cade  and  his  followers,  though  extinguished,  left  the  country  in  a  state  which 
eoi 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


enabled  a  faw  discontented  nobles  to  plunge  it  into  a  savage  civil  war ;  thousands  of  discontented  and 
unemployed  peasants  were  ready  to  flock  to  any  standard,  and  to  fight  for  any  cause.  If  peace 
would  yield  them  nothing,  they  were  willing  to  try  what  war  could  do.  The  poet  truly  represents 
the  tragic  results  of  such  a  rising  among  a  rude  and  barbarous  people  ;  the  murder  of  Lord  Say  is 
both  affecting  and  horrible :  he  pleads  for  his  life  with  a  manly  eloquence  which  would  have  won  it 
from  any  but  a  people  inured  to  acts  of  bloodshed.  Cade,  however,  is  distinguished  from  his  fol- 
lowers by  his  great  courage  and  consistency  ;  and  we  pity  the  poor  starving  wretch  when  he  is  slain 
by  Iden  the  Kentish  esquire. 

In  the  fifth  act  of  this  play,  the  storm  which  has  been  so  long  lowering  at  length  breaks  forth ; 
ambition  throws  aside  its  thin  disguise  ;  the  perfidious  and  ungrateful  duke  of  York,  forgetting  that 
Henry  has  restored  him  to  his  honours  and  estates,  defies  his  sovereign,  and  claims  the  crown.  The 
banner  of  rebellion  floats  gaudily  in  the  air,  civil  war  commences  in  England,  and  the  play  terminates 
with  the  victory  of  York  at  St.  Albans,  and  the  flight  of  the  Lancastrian  party  to  London. 

This  and  the  following  drama  Mr.  Malone  believes  to  have  been  produced  in  their  present  form 
in  the  year  1591.  The  poet  was  then  in  his  twenty-ninth  year,  the  year  to  which  Mr.  Drake  assic^ns 
the  production  of  Love's  Labour  's  Lost,  certainly  Sliakespeare's  most  feeble  comedy. 

''*  '  906 


PEKSONS    KEPEESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Sixth. 

Apj)ears,Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.3.  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 

BO.  2 ;  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  4 ;  sc.  9.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloster,  his  Uncle. 

dppears.  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3.     Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc. 

4.    Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Cardinal   Beaufort,  Bishop   of  Winchester, 

Great-Uncle  to  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.     Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 

sc.  2  ;  sc.  3. 

Richard  Plantagenet,  Duke  o/"  York. 

Ap2)ears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.4  .    Act  H.  sc.  2 ;  so.  8. 

Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Edward,  Son  to  the  Duke  of  York. 

A;ppearSy  Act  V.  sc.  1, 

Richard,  Son  to  the  Duke  of  York. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Duke  of  Somerset,  of  the  King's  Party. 

ippears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  IV. 

sc.  9.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Duke  of  Suffolk,  of  the  King's  Parttj. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  III. 

sc.  I ;  Bc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Duke  op  Buckingham,  of  the  King's  Party. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8 ;  sc.  4.  Act  II.  sc.  1.   Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Act  IV.  BC.  4;  sc.  8 ;  sc.  9.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Lord  Clifford,  of  the  King's  Party. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  8 ;  sc.  9.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Young  Clifford,  his  Son. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Earl  of  Salisbury,  of  the  York  Faction. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3.     Act  III.  sc.  2 ; 

BC.  3.    Act  V.  60.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Earl  of  Warwick,  his  Son,  also  of  the  York 

Faction. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  2 ; 

so.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8. 

Lord  Scales,  Governor  of  the  Tower. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  5. 

Lord  Say. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  4;  sc.  7. 

SiK  Humphrey  Stafford  and  his  Brother. 
Appear,  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Sir  John  Stanley. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4. 
906 


A  Sea  Captain,  Master,  Master's  Mate,  ind 

Walter  Whitmore. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Two  Gentlemen,  Prisoners  with  Suffolk. 
Appear,--Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Vaux. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  2, 

Hume,  a  Priest. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  63. 8. 

Southwell,  a  Priest. 

BoLiNGBROKE,  a  Conjurer, 

Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  4.    Act  II.  so.  8. 

A  Spirit  raised  by  them. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4. 

Thomas  Horner,  an  Armourer 

Peter,  his  Man. 
Appear,  Act  I.  so.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  8. 

Clerk  of  Chatham. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  4. 

Mayor  of  St.  Albans. 

Simpcox,  an  Impostor. 

Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Two  Murderers. 
Appear,  Act  III.  sc.  2. 

Jack  Cade,  a  Rebel. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  6 ;  sc.  7 ;  si..  8  ;  sc.  10. 

George  Bevis,  John  Holland,  Dick  the  Butcher 

Smith  the  Weaver,  Michael,  and   other  Foh 

lowers  of  Cade. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  6 ;  sc.  7 ;  sc.  8. 

Alexander  Iden,  a.  Kentish  Gentleman. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  10.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Margaret,  Queen  to  King  Heuiy. 

Appiears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  III. 

sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  4 ;  sc.  9.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Eleanor,  Duchess  o/"  Gloster. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.     Act  II.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4. 

Margery  Jourdain,  a  Witch. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  8. 

Wife  to  Simpcox. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants  ;  Petitioners,  Alder- 
men, a  Herald,  a  Beadle,  Sheriff,  and  Officers ; 
Citizens,  Prentices,  Falconers,  Guards,  Soldiers, 
Messengers,  <S;c. 

SCENE, — Dispersedly  in  various  parts  o/'Englakd 


i 


SECOND    PART    OF 


ing  Muxi]  i\)t  mil). 


ACT   I. 


SCEN^  I. — London. — A  Room  of  State  in  the 
Palace. 

Flourish  of  Trumpets:  then  Hautboys.  Enter ^ 
on  one  side,  King  Henry,  Duke  of  Gloster, 
Salisbury,  Warwick,  and  Cardinal  Beau- 
fort ;  on  the  other,  Queen  Margaret,  led  in 
by  Suffolk  ;  York,  Somerset,  Buckingham, 
and  Others,  following. 

Suf  As  by  your  high  imperial  majesty 
[  had  in  charge  at  my  depart  for  France, 
As  procurator  to  your  excellence, 
To  marry  pnucess  Margaret  for  your  grace ; 
So,  in  the  famous  ancient  city,  Tours, — 
In  presence  of  the  kings  of  France  and  Sicil, 
The  dukes  of  Orleans,  Calaber,  Bretaigne,  and 

Alenpon, 
Seven  earls,  twelve  barons,  twenty  reverend  bish- 
ops,— 
I  have  perform'd  my  task,  and  was  espous'd  : 
And  humbly  now  upon  my  bended  knee ; 
In  sight  of  England  and  her  lordly  peers, 
Deliver  up  my  title  in  the  queen 
To  your  most  gracious  hands,  that  are  the  sub- 
stance 
Of  that  great  shadow  I  did  represent; 
The  happiest  gift  that  ever  marquess  gave, 
The  fairest  queen  that  ever  king  receiv'd. 

K.  Hen.  Suffolk,  arise. — Welcome,  queen  Mar- 
garet : 
I  can  express  no  kinder  sign  of  love. 
Than  this  kind  kiss. — 0  Lord,  that  lends  me  life, 
Lend  me  a  heart  replete  with  thankfulness  1 


For  thou  hast  given  me,  in  this  beauteous  face, 
A  world  of  earthly  blessings  to  my  soul, 
If  sympathy  of  love  unite  our  thoughts. 

Q.  Mar.  Great  king  of  England,  and  my  gra 
cious  lord ; 
The  mutual  conference  that  my  mind  hath  had — 
By  day,  by  night ;  waking,  and  in  my  dreams ; 
In  courtly  company,  or  at  my  beads, — 
With  you  mine  alder-liefest  sovereign,' 
Makes  me  the  bolder  to  salute  my  king 
With  ruder  terms  ;  such  as  my  wit  affords, 
And  over-joy  of  heart  doth  minister. 

K.  Hen.  Her  sight  did  ravish :  but  her  grace 
in  speech. 
Her  words  y-clad  with  wisdom's  majesty. 
Makes  me,  from  wondering  fall  to  weeping  joys; 
Such  is  the  fulness  of  ray  heart's  content. — 
Lords,  with  one  cheerful  voice  welcome  my  love. 
All.  Long  live  queen  Margaret,  England's  hap- 
piness ! 
Q.  Mar.  We  thank  you  all.  [^Flourish. 

Suf.    My  lord   protector,   so   it   please   your 
grace, 
Here  are  the  articles  of  contracted  peace, 
Between    our   sovereign    and    the   French    king 

Charles, 
For  eighteen  months  concluded  by  consent. 

Glo.  [Reads^  Imprimis,  It  is  agreed  between  the 
French  king,  Charles,  and  William  de  la  Poole,  marquess 
of  Suffolk,  ambassadcr  for  Henry  king  of  England,— 
that  the  said  Henry  shall  espouse  the  lady  Margaret, 
daughter  unto  Reignier  king  of  Naples,  Sicilia,  and  Jeru- 
salem ;  and  crown  lier  quecu  of  England,  ere  the  thirtieth 

of  May  next  ensuing. Item. — That  the  duchy  of  Aajoa 

907 


ACT    I. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    1. 


and  the  county  of  Maine  shall  be  released  and  delivered 
to  the  king  lier  father 

K.  Hen,  Uncle,  how  now  ? 

Glo.  Pardon  me,  gracious  lord ; 

Some  sudden  qualm  hath  struck  me  at  the  heart, 
And  dimm'd  mine  eyes,  that  I  can  read  no  further. 

K.  Hen.  Uncle  of  Winchester,  I  pray,  read  on. 

Win.  Item,— It  is  further  agreed  between  them,— that 
the  duchies  of  Anjou  and  Maine  shall  be  released  and  de- 
livered over  to  the  king  her  father ;  and  she  sent  over  of 
the  king  of  England's  own  projier  cost  and  charges,  with- 
out having  dowry. 

K.  Hen.  They  please  us  well. — Lord  marquess, 
kneel  down ; 
We  here  create  thee  the  first  duke  of  Suffolk, 
And  girt  thee  with  the  sword. — 
Cousin  of  York,  we  here  discharge  your  grace 
From  being  regent  in  the  parts  of  France, 
Till  term  of  eighteen  months  be  full  expir'd. — 
Thanks,   uncle   Winchester,    Gloster,    York,    and 

Buckingham, 
Somerset,  Salisbury,  and  Warwick  ; 
We  thank  you  all  for  this  great  favour  done. 
In  entertainment  to  my  princely  queen. 
Come,  let  us  in  ;  and  with  all  speed  provide 
To  see  her  coronation  be  perform 'd. 

[^Exeunt  King,  Queen,  and  Suf. 

Glo.  Brave  peers  of  England,  pillars  of  the  state, 
To  you  duke  Humphrey  rauot  unload  his  grief, 
Your  grief,  the  common  grief  of  all  the  land. 
What !  did  my  brother  Henry  spend  his  youth, 
His  valour,  coin,  and  people,  in  the  wars? 
Did  he  so  often  lodge  in  open  field, 
In  winter's  cold,  and  summer's  parching  heat, 
To  conquer  France,  his  true  inheritance? 
And  did  my  brother  Bedford  toil  his  wits, 
To  keep  by  policy  what  Henry  got  ? 
Have  you  yourselves,  Somerset,  Buckingham, 
Brave  York,  Salisbury,  and  victorious  Warwick, 
Receiv'd  deep  scars  in  France  and  Normandy  ? 
Or  hath  my  uncle  Beaufort,  and  myself, 
With  all  the  learned  council  of  the  realm, 
Studied  so  long,  sat  in  the  council- house, 
Early  and  late,  debating  to  and  fro 
How  France  and  Frenchmen  might  be  kept  in  awe? 
And  hath  his  highness  in  his  infancy 
Been  crown'd  in  Paris,  in  despite  of  foes  ? 
And  shall  these  labours  and  these  honours  die? 
Shall  Henry's  conquest,  Bedfoid's  vigilance. 
Your  deeds  of  war,  and  all  our  counsel,  die  ? 
O  peers  of  England,  shameful  is  this  league  ! 
Fatal  this  marriage,  cancelling  your  fame : 

U08 


Blotting  your  names  from  books  of  memory  ; 
Razing  the  characters  of  your  renown  ; 
Defacing  monuments  of  conquer'd  France  ; 
Undoing  all,  as  all  had  never  been! 

Car.  Nephew,  what  means  this  passionate  dis- 
course ? 
This  peroration  with  such  circumstance  ? 
For  France,  't  is  ours ;  and  we  will  keep  it  still. 

Glo.  Ay,  uncle,  we  will  keep  it,  if  we  can  ; 
But  now  it  is  impossible  we  should  : 
Sufl^blk,  the  new-made  duke  that  rules  the  roast, 
Hath  given  the  duchies  of  Anjou  and  Maine 
Unto  the  poor  king  Reignier,  whose  large  style 
Agrees  not  with  the  leanness  of  his  purse. 

Sal.  Now,  by  the  death  of  him  that  died  for  all, 
These  counties  were  the  keys  of  Normandy  : — 
But,  wherefore  weeps  Warwick,  my  valiant  son  ? 

War.  For  grief  that  they  are  past  recovery  : 
For,  were  there  hope  to  conquer  them  again. 
My  sword  should  shed  hot  blood,  mine  eyes  no 

tears. 
Anjou  and  Maine  !  myself  did  win  them  both  ; 
Those  provinces  these  arms  of  mine  did  conquer  : 
And  are  the  cities,  that  I  got  with  wounds, 
Deliver'd  up  again  with  peaceful  words  ? 
Mort  Dieu  ! 

York.  For  Suffolk's  duke — may  he  be  suffocate, 
That  dims  the  honour  of  this  warlike  isle  ! 
France  should  have  torn  and  rent  my  very  heart, 
Before  I  would  have  yielded  to  this  league. 
I  never  read  but  England's  kings  have  had 
Large  sums  of  gold,  and  dowries,  with  their  wives : 
And  our  king  Henry  gives  away  his  own. 
To  match  with  her  that  brings  no  vantages. 

Glo.  A  proper  jest,  and  never  heard  before, 
That  Suffolk  should  demand  a  whole  fifteenth, 
For  costs  and  charges  in  transporting  her  ! 
She  should  have  staid  in  France,  and  starv'd  in 

France, 
Before 

Car.  My  lord  of  Gloster,  now  you  grow  too  hot; 
It  was  the  pleasure  of  my  lord  the  king. 

Glo.  My  lord  of  Winchester,  I  know  yoUr  mind ; 
'T  is  not  my  speeches  that  you  do  mislike. 
But 't  is  my  presence  that  doth  trouble  you. 
Rancour  will  out:  Proud  prelate,  in  thy  face 
I  see  thy  fury  :  if  I  longer  stay. 
We  shall  begin  our  ancient  bickerings. — 
Lordings,  farewell ;  and  saj',  when  I  am  gone, 
I  prophesied — France  will  be  lost  ere  long.  \ExiU 

Car.  So,  there  goes  our  protector  in  a  rage. 
'T  is  known  to  you,  he  is  mine  enemy  : 


k:sq  henry  the  sixth. 


SCENK   I. 


Nay,  more,  an  enemy  unto  you  all ; 
And  no  great  friend,  I  fear  me,  to  the  king. 
Consider,  lords,  he  is  the  next  of  blood, 
And  heir  apparent  to  the  English  crown  ; 
Had  Henry  got  an  empire  by  his  marriage. 
And  all  the  wealthy  kingdoms  of  the  west," 
There  's  reason  he  should  be  displeased  at  it. 
Look  to  it,  lords  ;  let  not  his  smoothing  words 
Bewitch  your  hearts  ;  be  wise,  and  circumspect. 
What  though  the  common  people  favour  him. 
Calling   him — "  Humphrey,    the   good   duke   of 

Gloster ;" 
Clapping  their  hands,  and  crying  with  loud  voice — 
"  Jesu  maintain  your  royal  excellence  !''' 
With — "  God  preserve  the  good  duke  Humphrey!" 
I  fear  me,  lords,  for  all  this  flattering  gloss, 
He  will  be  found  a  dangerous  protector. 

Buck.  Why  should  he  then  protect  our  sovereign, 
He  being  of  age  to  govern  of  himself  ? — 
Cousin  of  Somerset,  join  you  with  me. 
And  all  together — with  the  duke  of  Suffolk, — 
We  '11  quickly  hoise  duke  Humphrey  from  his  seat. 

Car.  This  weighty  business  will  not  brook  delay  ; 
[  '11  to  the  duke  of  Suffolk  presently.  [Uxit. 

)So?n.  Cousin   of  Buckingham,  though  Hum- 
phrey's pride, 
A.nd  greatness  of  his  place  be  grief  to  us, 
Vet  let  us  watch  the  haughty  cardinal ; 
[lis  insolence  is  more  intolerable 
riiHU  all  the  princes  in  the  land  beside ; 
If  Gloster  be  displac'd,  he  '11  be  protector. 

Buck.  Or  thou,  or  I,  Somerset,  will  be  protector. 
Despite  duke  Humphrey,  or  the  cardinal. 

[£.xit  Buck,  and  Som. 

Sal.  Pride  went  before,  ambition  follows  him. 
While  these  do  labour  for  their  own  preferment, 
Behoves  it  us  to  labour  for  the  realm. 
I  never  saw  but  Hurnphrey  duke  of  Gloster 
Did  bear  him  like  a  noble  gentleman. 
Oft  have  I  seen  the  haughty  cardinal — 
More  like  a  soldier,  than  a  man  o'  the  church, 
As  stout,  and  proud,  as  he  were  lord  of  all, — 
Swear  like  a  ruffian,  and  demean  himself 
Unlike  the  ruler  of  a  commonweal. — 
Warwick,  my  son,  the  comfort  of  my  age ! 
riiy  deeds,  thy  plainness,  and  thy  house-keeping. 
Hath  won  the  greatest  favour  of  the  commons. 
Excepting  none  but  good  duke  Humphrey. — 
And,  brother  York,  thy  acts  in  Ireland, 
In  bringing  them  to  civil  discipline  f 
Thy  late  exploits  done  in  the  heart  of  France, 
VVhen  thou  wert  regent  for  our  sovereign, 


Have  made  thee  fear'd,  and  honour'd,  of  the  peo- 
ple : — 
Join  we  togetner,  for  the  public  good ; 
In  what  we  can  to  bridle  and  suppress 
The  pride  of  Suflblk,  and  the  cardinal. 
With  Somerset's  and  Buckingham's  ambition ; 
And,  as  we  may,  cherish  duke  Humphrey's  deeds, 
While  they  do  tend  the  profit  of  the  land. 

War.  So  God  helpWarwick,  as  he  loves  the  land, 
And  common  profit  of  his  country  ! 

York.  And  so  says  York,  for  he  hath  greatest 

cause. 
Sal.  Then  let 's  make  haste  away,  and  look  un- 
to the  main. 
War.  Unto  the  main  !  O,  father,  Maine  is  lost; 
That  Maine,  which  by  main  force  Warwick  did  win, 
Apd  would  have  kept,  so  long  as  breath  did  last: 
Main  chance,  father,  you  meant ;  but  I  meantMaine, 
Which  I  will  win  from  France,  or  else  be  slain. 

[SJxeunt  War.  and  Sal. 
York.   Anjou   and    Maine    are   given    to    the 
French  : 
Paris  is  lost ;  the  state  of  Normandy 
Stands  on  a  tickle  point,  now  they  are  gone : 
Suffolk  concluded  on  the  articles  ; 
The  peers  agreed,  and  Henry  was  well  pleas'd. 
To  change  two  dukedoms  for  a  duke's  fair  daughter. 
I  cannot  blame  them  all :  What  is  't  to  them  ? 
'T  is  thine  they  give  away,  and  not  their  own. 
Pirates  may   make  cheap  pennyworths  of  theii 

pillage, 
And  purchase  friends,  and  give  to  courtezans, 
Still  revelling,  like  lords,  till  all  be  gone  : 
While  as  the  silly  owner  of  the  goods 
Weeps  over  them,  and  wrings  his  hapless  hands, 
And  shakes  his  head,  and  trembling  stands  aloof, 
While  all  is  shar'd,  and  all  is  borne  away ; 
Ready  to  starve,  and  dare  not  touch  his  own. 
So  York  must  sit,  and  fret,  and  bite  his  tongue. 
While  his  own  lands  are  bargain'd  for,  and  sold. 
Methinks,  the  realms   of  England,  France,  and 

Ireland, 
Bear  that  proportion  to  my  flesh  and  blood. 
As  did  the  fatal  brand  Althea  burn'd. 
Unto  the  prince's  heart  of  Calydon.'' 
Anjou  and  Maine,  both  given  unto  the  French  I 
Cold  news  for  me  ;  for  I  had  hope  of  France, 
Even  as  I  have  of  fertile  England's  soil. 
A  day  will  come,  when  York  shall  claim  his  own  ; 
And  therefore  I  will  take  the  Nevils'  parts. 
And  make  a  show  of  l<^7e  to  proud  duke  Hum- 
phrey, 

•09 


ACT    I. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    II. 


AJid,  when  I  spy  advantage,  claim  the  crown, 

For  that 's  the  golden  mark  I  seek  to  hit : 

Nor  shall  proud  Lancaster  usurp  my  right, 

Nor  hold  his  sceptre  in  his  childish  fist, 

Nor  wear  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 

Whose  church-like  humours  fit  not  for  a  crown. 

Then,  York,  be  still  a  while,  till  time  do  serve : 

Watch  thou,  and  wake,  when  others  be  asleep, 

To  pry  into  the  secrets  of  the  state ; 

Till  Henry,  surfeiting  in  joys  of  love. 

With  his  new  bride,  and  England's  dear-bought 

queen. 
And  Humphrey  with  the  peers  be  fall'n  at  jars : 
Then  will  I  raise  aloft  the  milk-white  rose, 
With  whose  sweet  smell  the  air  shall  be  perfum'd  ; 
And  in  my  standard  bear  the  arms  of  York, 
To  grapple  with  the  house  of  Lancaster  ; 
And,  force   perforce,   I  '11   make    him  yield    the 

crown. 
Whose  bookish  rule  hath  puU'd  fair  England  down. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  n. — The  Same.    A  Room  in  the  Duke  of 
Gloster's  House. 

Enter  Gloster  and  the  Duchess. 

Duch.  Why  droops  my  lord,  like  over-ripen'd 

corn, 
Hanging  the  head  at  Ceres'  plenteous  load  ? 
Why  doth   the  great  duke  Humphrey  knit  his 

brows. 
As  frowning  at  the  favours  of  the  world  ? 
Why  are  thine  eyes  fix'd  to  the  sullen  earth, 
Gazing  on  that  which  seems  to  dim  thy  sight  ? 
What  see'st  thou  there  ?  king  Henry's  diadem, 
Enchas'd  with  all  the  honours  of  the  world  ? 
If  so,  gaze  on,  and  grovel  on  thy  face, 
Until  tliy  head  be  circled  with  the  same. 
Put  forth  thy  hand,  reach  at  the  glorious  gold  : — 
What,  is  't  too  short  ?  I  '11  lengthen  it  with  mine : 
And,  having  both  together  heav'd  it  up, 
We  '11  both  together  lift  our  heads  to  heaven  ; 
And  never  more  abase  our  sight  so  low. 
As  to  vouchsafe  one  glance  unto  the  ground. 
Olo.  O  Nell,  sweet  Nell,  if  thou  dost  love  thy 

lord. 
Banish  the  canker  of  ambitious  thoughts  : 
And  may  that  thought,  when  I  imagine  ill 
Against  my  king  and  nephew,  virtuous  Henry, 
He  my  last  breathing  in  this  mortal  world ! 
My  troublous  dream  this  night  doth  make  me  sad. 

910 


Duch.  What  dream'd  my  lord  ?  tell  me,  and 
I  '11  requite  it 

With  sweet  rehearsal  of  my  morning's  dream. 
Glo.  Methought,  this  staft',  mine  ofiice-badge  in 
court, 

Was  broke  in  twain  ;  by  whom,  I  have  forgot. 

But,  as  I  think,  it  was  by  the  cardinal  ; 

And  on  the  pieces  of  the  broken  wand 

Were  plac'd  the  heads  of  Edmond  duke  of  Som- 
erset, 

And  William  de  la  Poole  first  duke  of  Suffolk. 

This  was   my  dream ;  what  it  doth  bode,  God 
knows. 
Duch.  Tut,  this  was  nothing  but  an  argument, 

That  he  that  breaks  a  stick  of  Gloster's  grove, 

Shall  lose  his  head  for  his  presumption. 

]3at  list  to  me,  my  Humphrey,  my  sweet  duke  : 

Methought,  I  sat  in  seat  of  majesty, 

In  the  cathedral  church  of  Westminster, 

And  in  that  chair  where  kings   and  queens  are 
crown'd  ; 

Where  Henry,  and  dame  Margaret,  kneel'd  to  me, 

And  on  my  head  did  set  the  diadem. 

Glo.  Nay,  Eleanor,  then  must  I  chide  outright: 

Presumptuous  dame,  ill-nurtur'd  Eleanor ! 

Art  thou  not  second  woman  in  the  realm  ; 

And  the  protector's  wife,  belov'd  of  him  ? 

Hast  thou  not  worldly  pleasure  at  command. 

Above  the  reach  or  compass  of  thy  thought  ? 

Ar"^  wilt  thou  still  be  hammering  treachery, 

To  tumble  down  thy  husband  and  thyself, 

From  top  of  honour  to  disgrace's  feet  ? 

Away  from  me,  and  let  me  hear  no  more. 

Duch.  What,  what,  my  lord  !  are  you  so  cho- 
leric 

With  Eleanor,  for  telling  but  her  dream  ? 

Next  time,  I  'II  keep  my  dreams  unto  myself, 

And  not  be  check'd. 

Olo.  Nay,  be  not  angry,  I  am  pleas'd  again. 

Enter  a  Messenger, 

Mess.   My    lord  protector,   *t  is  his   highness 
pleasure. 
You  do  prepare  to  ride  unto  Saint  Albans, 
Whereas  the  king  and  queen  do  mean  to  hawk. 
Olo.  I  go. — Come,  Nell,  thou  wilt  ride  with  us  I 
Duch.  Yes,  good  my  lord,  I  '11  follow  presently 
\Exeunt  Glo.  and  Mess. 
Follow  I  must,  I  cannot  go  before, 
While  Gloster  bears  this  base  and  humble  mind 
Were  I  a  man,  a  duke,  and  next  of  blood, 
I  would  remove  these  tedious  stumbling-blocks, 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    III. 


And  smooth  my  way  upon  their  headless  necks : 

And,  being  a  woman,  I  will  not  be  slack 

To  play  my  part  in  fortune's  pageant. 

Where  are  you  there  ?  Sir  John  !*  nay,  fear  not, 

man, 
We  are  alone;  here  's  none  but  thee,  and  I. 

Enter  Hume. 

Hume.  Jesu  preserve  your  royal  majesty  ! 

Duch.  Wliat  say'st  thou,  majesty !  I  am  but 
grace. 

Hume.  But,  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  Hume's 
advice. 
Your  grace's  title  shall  be  multiplied. 

Duch.  What  say'st  thou,  man  ?  hast  thou  as 
yet  conferr'd 
With  Margery  Jourdain,  the  cunning  witch  ; 
And  Eoger  Bolingbroke,  the  conjurer  ? 
And  will  they  undertake  to  do  me  good  ? 

Hume.  This  they  have  promised, — to  show  your 
highness 
A  spirit  rais'd  from  depth  of  under  ground, 
That  shall  make  answer  to  such  questions. 
As  "^y  your  grace  shall  be  propounded  him. 

Duch.  It  is  enough  ;  I'll  think  upon  the  ques- 
tions : 
When  from  Saint  Albans  we  do  make  return, 
We  '11  see  these  things  effected  to  the  full. 
Here,  Hume,  take  this  reward :  make  merry,  man. 
With  thy  confederates  in  this  weighty  cause. 

[Exit  Duch. 

Hume.    Hume   must    make    merry  with    the 
duchess'  gold ; 
Marry,  and  shall.    But  how  now.  Sir  John  Hume  ? 
Seal  up  your  lips,  and  give  no  words  but — mum  ! 
The  business  asketh  silent  secrecy. 
Dame  Eleanor  gives  gold,  to  bring  the  witch  : 
Gold  cannot  come  amiss,  were  she  a  devil. 
Yet  have  I  gold,  flies  from  another  coast : 
I  dare  not  say,  from  the  rich  cardinal, 
And  from  the  great  and  new-made  duke  of  Suf- 
folk ; 
Yet  I  do  find  it  so  :  for,  to  be  plain. 
They,  knowing  dame  Eleanor's  aspiring  humour, 
Have  hired  me  to  undermine  the  duchess, 
And  buzz  these  conjurations  in  her  brain. 
They  say,  A  crafty  knave  does  need  no  broker ;® 
Yet  am  I  Suffolk  and  the  cardinal's  broker. 
Hume,  if  you  take  not  heed,  you  shall  go  near 
To  call  them  both — a  pair  of  crafty  knaves. 
Well,  so  it  stands :  And  thus,  I  fear,  at  last, 
Hume's  knavery  will  be  thn  duchess'  wreck ; 


And  her  attainture  will  be  Humphrey's  fall : 
Sort  how  it  will,  I  shall  have  gold  for  all.     [Exk. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.    A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Peter,  and  Others,  with  Petiticr^s. 

\st  Pet.  My  masters,  let 's  stand  close  ;  my  loni 
protector  will  come  this  way  by  and  by,  and  then 
we  may  deliver  our  supplications  in  the  quill.' 

2nd  Pet.  Marry,  the  Lord  protect  him,  for  he  '^ 
a  good  man  !     Jesu  bless  him  ! 

Enter  Suffolk,  and  Queen  Margaret. 

\st  Pet.  Here  'a  comes,  methinks,  and  the  queen 
with  him  :  I  '11  be  the  first,  sure. 

2nd  Pet.  Come  back,  fool ;  this  is  the  duke  o< 
Suffolk,  and  not  my  lord  protector. 

Suf.  How  now,  fellow  ?  would  'st  any  thing 
with  me  ? 

Ist  Pet.  I  pray,  my  lord,  pardon  me!  I  took 
ye  for  my  lord  protector. 

Q.  Mar.  \Reading  the  su2)erscription.^  "  To  my 
lord  protector !"  are  your  supplications  to  his 
lordsliip  ?  Let  me  see  them  :  What  is  thine  ? 

Ist  Pet.  Mine  is,  an  't  please  your  grace,  against 
John  Goodman,  my  lord  cardinal's  man,  for  keep- 
ing ray  house,  and  lands,  and  wife  and  all,  from  me. 

Suf.  Thy  wife  too  ?  that  is  some  wrong,  indeed. 
—  What  's  yours? — What  's  here!  [Reads.] 
"  Against  the  duke  of  Suffolk,  for  enclosing  the 
commons  of  Melford." — How  now,  sir  knave  ? 

2nd  Pet.  Alas,  sir,  I  am  but  a  poor  petitioner  of 
our  whole  township. 

Peter.  [Presenting  his  Petition.']  Against  my 
master,  Thomas  Horner,  for  saying  that  the  duke 
of  York  was  rightful  heir  to  the  crown. 

Q.  Mar.  What  say'st  thou  ?  Did  the  duke  of 
York  say,  he  was  rightful  heir  to  the  crown  ? 

Peter.  That  my  master  was  ?  No,  forsooth . 
my  master  said,  That  he  was  ;  and  that  the  king 
was  an  usurper. 

Suf.  Who  is  there  ?  [Enter  Servants.] — Take 
this  fellow  in,  and  send  for  his  master  with  a  pur- 
suivant presently : — we  'II  hear  more  of  your  matter 
before  the  king.     [Exeunt  Servants,  with  Peter. 

Q.  Mar.  And  as  for  you,  that  love  to  be  j)ro- 
tected 
Under  the  wings  of  our  protector's  grace. 
Begin  your  suits  anew,  and  sue  to  him. 

[Tears  the  Petition. 
Away,  base  cullions  , — Suftolk,  let  them  go. 

All.  Come,  let's  te  gone.  [Exeunt  Petitioners. 

911 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE  in. 


Q.  Mar.  My  lord  of  Suffolk,  say,  is  this  the 

guise. 
Is  this  the  fashion  in  the  court  of  England  ? 
Is  this  the  government  of  Britain's  isle, 
And  this  the  royalty  of  Albion's  king  ? 
What,  shall  king  Henry  be  a  pupil  still, 
Under  the  surly  Gloster's  governance  ? 
Am  I  a  queen  in  title  and  in  style. 
And  must  be  made  a  subject  to  a  duke  ? 
I  tell  thee,  Poole,  when  in  the  city  Tours 
Thou  ran'st  a  tilt  in  honour  of  my  love, 
And  stol'st  away  the  ladies'  hearts  of  France  ; 
I  thought  king  Henry  had  resembled  thee, 
In  courage,  courtship,  and  proportion  : 
But  all  his  mind  is  bent  to  holiness, 
To  number  Ave-Maries  on  his  beads  : 
His  champions  are — the  prophets  and  apostles  ; 
His  weapons,  holy  saws  of  sacred  writ ; 
His  study  is  his  tilt-yard,  and  his  loves 
Are  brazen  images  of  canoniz'd  saints. 
I  would,  the  college  of  cardinals 
Would  choose  him  pope,  and  carry  him  to  Rome, 
And  set  the  triple  crown  upon  his  head  ; 
That  were  a  state  fit  for  his  holiness. 

Suf.  Madam,  be  patient :  as  I  was  cause 
Your  highness  came  to  England,  so  will  I 
In  England  work  your  grace's  full  content. 

Q.  Mar.  Beside  the  haught  protector,  have  we 

Beaufort, 
The  imperious  churchman  ;   Somerset,  Bucking- 
ham, 
And  grumbling  York  :  and  not  the  least  of  these, 
But  can  do  more  in  England  than  the  king. 

Suf.  And  he  of  these,  that  can  do  most  of  all. 
Cannot  do  more  in  England  than  the  Nevils  : 
Salisbury,  and  Warwick,  are  no  simple  peers. 
Q.  Mar.  Not  all  these  lords  do  vex  me  half  so 

much, 
As  that  proud  dame,  the  lord  protector's  wife. 
She  sweeps  it  through  the  court  with  troops  of 

ladies. 
More   like   an    empress  than   duke  Humphrey's 

wife; 
Strangers  in  court  do  take  her  for  the  queen  : 
She  bears  a  duke's  revenues  on  her  back, 
And  in  her  heart  she  scorns  our  poverty  : 
Shall  I  not  live  to  be  aveng'd  on  her  ? 
Contemptuous  base-born  callat  as  she  is, 
She  vaunted  'mong  her  minions  t'  other  day. 
The  very  train  of  her  worst  wearing-gown 
Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father's  lands, 
Till  Suffolk  gave  two  dukedoms  for  his  daughter. 

912 


Suf.  Madam,  myself  have  lim'd  a  bush  for  hei ; 
And  plac'd  a  quire  of  such  enticing  birds, 
That  she  will  light  to  listen  to  the  lays. 
And  never  mount  to  trouble  you  again. 
So,  let  her  rest :  And,  madam,  list  to  me  ; 
For  I  am  bold  to  counsel  you  in  this. 
Although  we  fancy  not  the  cardinal. 
Yet  must  we  join  with  him,  and  with  the  lords, 
Till  we  have  brought  duke  Humphrey  in  disgrace. 
As  for  the  duke  of  York, — this  late  complaint 
Will  make  but  little  for  his  benefit  : 
So,  one  by  one,  we  '11  weed  them  all  at  last. 
And  you  yourself  shall  steer  the  happy  helm. 

Enter  Kino  Henry,  York,  and  Somerset,  con- 
versing with  him;  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Glos- 
TER,  Cardinal  Beaufort,  Buckingham,  Salis- 
bury, and  Warwick. 

K.  Hen.  For  my  part,  noble   lords,  I  care  not 
which  : 
Or  Somerset,  or  Yoi-k,  all 's  one  to  me. 

York.  If  Y'^ork   have  ill  demean'd   himself  in 
France, 
Then  let  him  be  denay'd  the  regentship. 

Som.  If  Somerset  be  unworthy  of  the  place. 
Let  Yoi'k  be  regent,  I  will  yield  to  him. 

War.  Whether  your  grace  be  worthy,  yea,  or 
no, 
Dispute  not  that :  York  is  the  worthier. 

Car.  Ambitious  Warwick,  let  thy  betters  speak. 
War.  The  cardinal 's  not  my  better  in  the  field. 
Buck.  All    in   this  presence    are    thy    betters, 

Warwick. 
Wa,r.  Warwick  may  live  to  be  the  best  of  all. 

Sal.  Peace,   son; and  show  some    reason, 

Buckingham, 
Why  Somerset  should  be  preferr'd  in  this. 

Q.  Mar.  Because  the  king,  forsooth,  will  have 

it  so. 
Glo.  Madam,  the  king  is  old  enough  himself 
To  give  his  censure :  these  are  no  women's  mat- 
ters. 
Q.  Mar.  If  he  be  old  enough,  what  needs  your 
grace 
To  be  protector  of  his  excellence  ? 

Glo.  Madam,  I  am  protector  of  the  realm  ; 
And,  at  his  pleasure,  will  resign  my  place. 

Suf.  Resign  it  then,  and  leave  thine  insolence. 
Since  thou  wert  king,  (as  who  is  king,  but  thou  ?) 
The  commonwealth  hath  daily  run  to  wreck : 
The  Dauphin  hath  prevail'd  beyond  the  seas, 
And  all  the  peers  and  nobles  of  the  realm 


ACT   I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    lU. 


Have  been  as  bondmen  to  thy  sovereignty. 

Car.    The   commons    hast   thou    rack'd :    the 
clergy's  bags 
Are  lank  and  lean  with  thy  extortions. 

Sonti.  Thy  sumptuous  buildings,  and  thy  wife's 
attire, 
Have  cost  a  mass  of  public  treasury. 

Buck.  Thy  cruelty  in  execution, 
Upon  offenders,  hath  exceeded  law, 
And  left  thee  to  the  mercy  of  the  law. 

Q.  Mar.  Thy  sale   of  offices,   and    towns   in 
France, — 
If  they  were  known,  as  the  suspect  is  great, — 
Would  make  thee  quickly  hop  without  thy  head. 
\Exit  Glo.     The  Queen  drojps  her  Fan. 
Give  me  my  fan  :  What,  minion !  can  you  not? 

\Gives  the  Duchess  a  lox  on  the  Ear. 
I  cry  you  mercy,  madam  :  Was  it  you  ? 

Duch.  Was  't  I  ?  yea,  I  it  was,  proud  French- 
woman : 
Could  I  come  near  your  beauty  with  my  nails, 
I  'd  set  my  ten  commandments  in  your  face. 
K.  Hen.  Sweet  aunt,  be  quiet ;  't  was  against 

her  will. 
Dxich.  Against  her  will !   Good  king,  look  to  't 
in  time ; 
She  '11  hamper  thee,  and  dandle  thee  like  a  baby  : 
Though  in  this  place  most  master  wear  no  breeches,* 
She  shall  not  strike  dame  Eleanor  unreveng'd. 

\Exit  Duch. 
Buck.  Lord  cardinal,  I  Avill  follow  Eleanor, 
And  listen  after  Humphrey,  how  he  proceeds  : 
She 's  tickled  now ;  her  fume  can  need  no  spurs. 
She  '11  gallop  fast  enough  to  her  destruction. 

\Exit  Buck, 

Re-enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Now,  lords,  my  choler  being  over-blown. 
With  walking  once  about  the  quadrangle, 
I  come  to  talk  of  commonwealth  affairs. 
As  for  your  spiteful  false  objections. 
Prove  tliera,  and  I  lie  open  to  the  law : 
But  God  in  mercy  so  deal  with  my  soul. 
As  I  in  duty  love  my  king  and  country  ! 
But,  to  the  matter  that  we  have  in  hand : — 
1  say,  my  sovereign,  York  is  meetest  man 
To  be  your  regent  in  the  realm  of  France. 

Suf.  Before  we  make  election,  give  me  leave 
To  show  some  reason,  of  no  little  force, 
That  York  is  most  unmeet  of  any  man. 

York.  I  '11  tell  thee,  Suffolk,  why  I  am  unmeet. 
First,  for  I  cannot  flatter  thee  in  pride  : 


Next,  if  I  be  appointed  for  the  place, 
My  lord  of  Somerset  will  keep  me  here. 
Without  discharge,  money,  or  furniture, 
Till  France  be  won  into  the  Dauphin's  hands. 
Last  time,  I  danc'd  attendance  on  his  will, 
Till  Paris  was  besieg'd,  famish'd,  and  lost. 

War.  That  I  can  witness ;  and  a  fouler  fact 
Did  never  traitor  in  the  land  commit. 

Suf.  Peace,  head-strong  Warwick! 

War.  Image  of  pride,  why  should  I  hold  my 
peace  ? 

Enter  Servants  of  Suffolk,  bringing  in  Horner 
and  Peter. 

Suf.  Because  here  is  a  man  accus'd  of  treason : 
Pray  God,  the  duke  of  York  excuse  himself! 

York.  Doth  any  one  accuse  York  for  a  traitor  \ 

K.  Hen.  AVhat  mean'st  thou,  Suffolk?  tell  me. 
What  are  these  ? 

Suf.  Please  it  your  majesty,  this  is  the  man 
That  doth  accuse  his  master  of  high  treason  : 
Ilis  words  were  these ; — that  Richard,  duko   o 

York, 
Was  rightful  heir  unto  the  English  crown ; 
And  that  your  majesty  was  an  usurper. 

K.  Hen.  Say,  man,  were  these  thy  words  ? 

Hor.  An  't  shall  please  your  majesty,  I  never 
said  nor  thought  any  such  matter :  God  is  my  wit- 
ness, I  am  falsely  accused  by  the  villain. 

Pet.  By  these  ten  bones,  my  lords,  [Holding 
up  his  Hands,^  he  did  speak  them  to  me  in  the 
garret  one  night,  as  we  were  scouring  my  lord  of 
York's  armour. 

Yo7-k.  Base  dunghill  villain,  ?nd  mechanical, 
I  '11  have  thy  head  for  this  thy  traitor's  speech : — 
I  do  beseech  your  royal  majesty. 
Let  him  have  all  the  rigour  of  the  law. 

Hor.  Alas,  my  lord,  hang  me,  if  ever  I  spake 
the  words.  My  accuser  is  my  'prentice;  and  when 
I  did  correct  him  for  his  fault  the  other  day,  he 
did  vow  upon  his  knees  he  would  be  even  with 
me  :  I  have  good  witness  of  this  ;  therefore,  I  be- 
seech your  majesty,  do  not  cast  away  an  honest 
man  for  a  villain's  accusation. 

IC  Hen.  Uncle,  what  shall  we  say  to  this  in  law  ? 

Glo.  This  doom,  my  lord,  if  I  may  judge. 
Let  Somerset  be  regent  o'er  the  French, 
Because  in  York  this  breeds  suspicion  : 
And  let  these  have  a  day  appointed  theni 
For  single  combat  in  convenient  place; 
For  he  hath  witness  of  his  servant's  malice : 
This  is  the  law,  and  this  duke  Humphrey's  doom. 

913 


ACT   I. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


bCKNK   lY. 


K.  Hen.  Then  be  it  so.     My  lord  of  Somerset, 
We  make  your  grace  lord  regent  o'er  the  French, 

Som.  I  humbly  thank  your  royal  majesty. 

Hor.  And  I  accept  the  combat  willingly. 

Pet.  Alas,  my  lord,  I  cannot  fight ;  for  God's 
sake,  pity  my  case !  the  spite  of  man  prevaileth 
against  me.  O,  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me  !  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  fight  a  blow  :  O  Lord,  my 
heart ! 

Glo.  Sirrah,  or  you  must  fight,  or  else  be  hang'd. 

K.  Hen.  Away  with  them  to  prison  :  and  the  day 
Of  combat  shall  be  the  last  of  the  next  month. — 
Come,  Somerset,  we  '11  see  thee  sent  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  lY.—The  Same.    The  Duke  of  Gloster's 
Garden. 

Enter  Margery  Jourdain,  Hume,  Southwell, 

and  BOLINGBROKE. 

Hume.  Come,  my  masters  ;  the  duchess,  I  tell 
you,  expects  performance  of  your  promises. 

Boling.  Master  Hume,  we  are  therefore  pro- 
vided :  Will  her  ladyship  behold  and  hear  our  ex- 
orcisms ? 

Hume.  Ay  :  What  else  ?  fear  you  not  her  cou- 
rage. 

Boling.  I  have  heard  her  reported  to  be  a 
woman  of  an  invincible  spirit :  but  it  shall  be 
convenient,  master  Hume,  that  you  be  by  her 
aloft,  while  we  be  busy  below  ;  and  so,  I  pray  you, 
go  in  God's  name,  and  leave  us.  [Exit  Hume,] 
Mother  Jourdain,  be  you  prostrate,  and  grovel  on 
the  earth  : — John  Southwell,  read  you ;  and  let 
us  to  our  work. 

Enter  Duchess,  above. 

Duch.  Well  said,  my  masters ;  and  welcome  all. 
To  this  geer  :  the  sooner  the  better. 

Boling.  Patience,  good  lady ;  wizards  know  their 
times: 
Deep  night,  dark  night,  the  silence  of  the  night, 
The  time  of  night  when  Troy  was  set  on  fire ; 
The  time  when  screech-owls  cry,  and  ban-dogs 

howl, 
And  spirits  walk,  and  ghosts  break  up  their  graves. 
That  time  best  fits  the  work  we  have  in  hand. 
Madam,  sit  you,  and  fear  not ;  whom  we  raise. 
We  will  make  fast  within  a  hallow'd  verge. 
[Here  they  perform  the  Ceremonies  appertaining, 
and  make  the  Circle;  Boling.,  or  South., 
reads,  "  Oonjuro  te,"  c&c.     It  thunders  and 
lightens  terribly  ;  then  the  Spirit  riseth. 
9U 


Spir.  Adsum. 
M.  Jourd.  Asmath, 
By  the  eternal  God,  whose  name  and  power 
Thou  tremblest  at,  answer  that  I  shall  ask; 
For,  till  thou  speak,   thou  shalt  not  pass  from 
hence. 
Sj}ir.  Ask  what  thou  wilt : — That  I  had  said 

and  done ! 
Boling.  "  First,  of  the  king.     What  shall  of  him 
become  ?"        [Reading  out  of  a  Paper. 
Spir.  The  duke  yet  lives,  that  Henry  shall  de- 
pose; 
But  him  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death. 

[As  the  Spirit  speaks,  South,  writes  the  answer. 
Boling.  "  What  fate  awaits  the  duke  of  Suf- 
folk ?" 
Spir.  By  water  sliall  he  die,  and  take  his  end. 
Boling.  "  What  shall  befall  the  duke  of  Somer- 
set ?" 
Spir.  Let  him  shun  castles  ; 
Safer  shall  he  be  upon  the  sandy  plains 
Than  where  castles  mounted  stand. 
Have  done,  for  more  I  hardly  can  endure. 

Boling.  Descend  to  darkness,  and  the  burning 
lake: 
False  fiend,  avoid  ! 

[Thunder  and  Lightning.     Spir.  descends. 

Enter  Yoru  and  Buckingham,  hastily,  with  their 
Guards,  and  Others. 

York.  Lay  hands  upon  these  traitors,  and  theit 
trash. 
Beldame,  I  think  we  watch'd  you  at  an  inch. — 
What,  madam,  are  you  there  ?  the  king  and  com 

monweal 
Are  deeply  indebted  for  this  piece  of  pains ; 
My  lord  protector  will,  I  doubt  it  not. 
See  you  well  guerdon'd  for  these  good  deserts. 
Duch.  Not  half  so  bad  as  thine  to  England'" 
king, 
Injurious  duke ;  that  threat'st  where  is  no  cause. 
Buck.  True,  madam,  none  at  all.     What  cai' 
you  this  ?  [Showing  her  the  papers. 

Away  with  them  ;  let  them  be  clapp'd  up  close, 
And  kept  asunder : — You,  madam,  shall  with  u.s : — 
Staftbrd,  take  her  to  thee. — 

[Exit  DucH./rom  ahovt 
We  '11  see  your  trinkets  here  all  forth-coming ; 
All. — Away ! 

[Exeunt  Guards,  with  South.,  Bolinu.,  dc. 
York.  Lord  Buckingham,  methinks  you  wauii'd 
her  well : 


ACT    II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


80ENE   I. 


A  pretty  plot,  well  chosen  to  build  upon  ! 

Now,  pray,  ray  lord,  let 's  see  the  devil's  writ. 

What  have  we  here  ?  [^Reads. 

"  The  duke  yet  lives,  that  Henry  shall  depose ; 

But  him  outlive,  and  die  a  violent  death." 

Why,  this  is  just, 

Aio  te,  udEacida^  Romanos,  vincere  posse. 

Well,  to  the  rest : 

"  Tell  me,  what  fate  awaits  the  duke  of  Suffolk  ?" 

"  By  water  shall  he  die,  and  take  his  end." — 

"  What  shall  betide  the  duke  of  Somerset?" 

"  Let  him  shun  castles  ; 

Safer  shall  he  be  upon  the  sandy  plains, 

Than  where  castles  mounted  stand." 

Come,  come,  my  lords  ; 

These  oracles  are  hardily  attain'd, 


And  hardly  understood. 

The  king  is  now  in  progress  toward  Saint  Albans, 
With  him,  the  husband  of  this  lovely  lady  : 
Thither  go  these  news,  as  fast  as  horse  can  carry 

them ; 
A  sorry  breakfast  for  my  lord  protector. 

Buck.  Your  grace  shall  give  me  leave,  my  lord 

of  York, 
To  be  the  post,  in  hope  of  his  reward, 

Y(yr]c.  At  your  pleasure,  my  good  lord. — Who 's 
within  there,  ho ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Invite  my  lords  of  Salisbury,  and  Warwick, 
To  sup  with  me  to-morrow  night. — Away  1 

[Exeunt 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— Saint  Albans. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Queen  Margaret,  Glostkk, 
Cardinal,  and  Suffolk,  with  Falconers  hol- 
laing. 

Q.  Mar.  Believe  me,  lords,  for  flying  at  the 
brook,* 
[  saw  not  better  sport  these  seven  years'  day : 
Yet,  by  your  leave,  the  wind  was  very  high : 
And,  ten  to  one,  old  Joan  had  not  gone  out. 

K.  Hen.  But  what  a  point,  my  lord,  your  falcon 
made, 
And  what  a  pitch  she  flew  above  the  rest ! — 
To  see  how  God  in  all  his  creatures  works  ! 
Yea,  man  and  birds,  are  fain  of  climbing  high. 

Suf.  No  marvel,  an  it  like  your  majesty. 
My  lord  protector's  hawks  do  tower  so  well ; 
They  know  their  master  loves  to  be  aloft, 
And  bears  his  thoughts  above  his  falcon's  pitch. 

Olo.  My  lord,  't  is  but  a  base  ignoble  mind 
That  mounts  no  higher  than  a  bird  can  soar. 

Gar.  I  thought  as  much ;  he  'd  be  above  the 
clouds. 

Glc    Ay,  my  lord  cardinal :  How  think  you  by 
that  ? 
Were  it  not  good,  your  grace  could  fly  to  heaven  ? 

K.  Hen.  The  treasury  of  everlasting  joy  I 


Car.  Thy  heaven  is  on  earth ;   thine  eyes  and 
thoughts 
Beat  on  a  crown,  the  treasure  of  thy  heart ; 
Pernicious  protector,  dangerous  peer. 
That  smooth 'st  it  so  with  king  and  commonweal 
Glo.  What,  cardinal,  is  your  priesthood  grown 
peremptory  ? 
TantcBne  animis  coelestibus  irce  ? 
Churchmen  so  hot?  good  uncle,  hide  such  malice; 
With  such  hohness  can  you  do  it? 

Suf.   No  malice,  sir ;   no  more  than  well  be- 
comes 
So  good  a  quarrel,  and  so  bad  a  peer. 
Glo.  As  who,  my  lord  ? 

Suf.  Why,  as  you,  my  lord  ; 

An  't  like  your  lordly  lord-protectorship. 

Glo.  Why,  Suffolk,  England  knows  thine  inso- 
lence. 
Q.  Mar.  And  thy  ambition,  Gloster. 
K.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee,  peace, 

Good  queen ;  and  whet  not  on  these  furious  peers, 
For  blessed  are  tlw  peacemakers  on  earth. 

Car.  Let  me  be  blessed  for  the  peace  I  make, 
Against  this  proud  protector,  with  my  sword  I 
Glo.  'Faith,  holy  uncle,  'would  't  were  come  to 
that !  [Aside  to  the  Car. 

Car.  Marry,  when  thou  dar'st.  [Aside, 

916 


ACT   II. 


SECOND  l^x\RT  OF 


SCENE    I. 


Glo.  Make  up   no   factious   numbers   for  the 
matter, 
In  thine  own  person  answer  thy  abuse.       [Aside. 
Car.  Ay,  where  thou  dar'st  not  peep  :  an  if 
thou  dar'st, 
This  evening  on  the  east  side  of  the  grove.  \_Aside. 
K.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lords  \ 
Car.  Believe  me,  cousin  Gloster, 

Had  not  your  man  put  up  the  fowl  so  suddenly, 
"We  had  had  more  sport. — Come  with  thy  two- 
hand  sword.  [Aside  to  Glo. 
Qlo.  True,  uncle. 
Car.  Are  you  advis'd? — the  east  side  of  the 

grove  ? 

Qlo.  Cardinal,  I  am  with  you.  [Aside. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  how  now,  uncle  Gloster  ? 

Olo.  Talking  of  hawking :   nothing   else,  my 

lord. — 

Now,  by  God's  mother,  priest,  I  '11  shave   your 

crown  for  this. 
Or  all  my  fence  shall  fail.  [Aside. 

Car.  Medice  teipsum  ; 
Protector,  see  to 't  well,  protect  yourself.     [Aside. 
K.  Hen.  The  winds  grow  high;  so  do  your  sto- 
machs, lords. 
How  irksome  is  this  music  to  my  heart ! 
When  such  strings  jar,  what  hope  of  harmony? 
I  pray,  my  lords,  let  me  compound  this  strife. 

Enter  an  Inhabitant  of  Saint  Albans,  crying,  "  A 
Miracle.""' 

Olo.  What  means  this  noise  ? 
Fellow,  what  miracle  dost  thou  proclaim  ? 
Inhab.  A  miracle!  a  miracle  I 
Suf.  Come  to  the  king,  and  tell  him  what  mir- 
acle. 
Inhab.  Forsooth,  a  blind  man  at  Saint  Alban's 
shrine, 
Within  this  half  hour,  hath  received  his  sight ; 
A  man,  that  ne'er  saw  in  his  life  before. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  God  be  prais'd  !  that  to  believ- 
ing souls 
Gives  light  in  darkness,  comfort  in  despair ! 

Enter  the  Mayor  of  Saint  Albans,  and  his 
Brethren  ;  and  Simpcox,  borne  between  two  per- 
sons in  a  Chair  ;  his  Wife  and  a  great  Multi- 
tude following. 

Car.  Here  come  the  townsmen  on  procession, 
To  present  your  highness  with  the  man. 

K.  Hen.  Great  is  his  comfort  in  this  earthly 
vale, 
01« 


Although  by  his  sight  his  sin  be  multiplied. 
Glo.  Stand  by,  my  masters,  bring  him  near  the 
king. 
His  highness'  pleasure  is  to  talk  with  him. 

K.  Hen.  Good  fellow,  tell  us  here  the  circum- 
stance, 
That  we  for  thee  may  glorify  the  Lord. 
What,  hast  thou  been  long  blind,  and  now  restor'd  ? 
Simp.  Born  blind,  an  't  please  your  grace. 
Wife.  Ay,  indeed,  was  he. 
Suf.  What  woman  is  this  ? 
Wife.  His  wife,  an  't  like  your  worship. 
Glo.  Had'st  thou  been  his  mother,  thou  could'st 

have  better  told. 
K.  Hen.  Where  wert  thou  born  ? 
Simp.  At  Berwick  in  the  north,  an  't  like  your 

grace. 
K.  Hen.  Poor  soul !  God's  goodness  hath  been 
great  to  thee : 
Let  never  day  nor  night  unhallow'd  pass. 
But  still  remember  what  the  Lord  hath  done. 
Q.  Mar.  Tell  me,  good  fellow,  cam'st  thou  hero 
by  chance. 
Or  of  devotion,  to  this  holy  shrine  ? 

Simp.    God  knows,  of  pure  devotion :   being 
call'd 
A  hundred  times,  and  oft'ner,  in  my  sleep 
By   good   Saint  Alban ;    who   said, — "  Simpcox, 

come ; 
Come,  otfer  at  my  shrine,  and  I  will  help  thee." 
Wife.  Most  true,  forsooth  ;  and  many  time  and 
oft 
Myself  have  heard  a  voice  to  call  him  so. 
Car.  What,  art  thou  lame  ? 
Simp.  Ay,  God  Almighty  help  me ! 

Suf  How  cam'st  thou  so  ? 
Simp.  A  fall  oflf  of  a  tree. 

Wife.  A  plum-tree,  master. 
Glo.  How  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ? 

Simp.  O,  born  so,  master. 
Glo.  What,  and  would'st  climb  a  tree  ? 

Simp.  But  that  in  all  my  life,  when  I  was  a 

youth. 
Wife.  Too  true ;  and  bought  his  climbing  very 

dear. 
Glo.  'Mass,  thou  lov'dst  plums  well  that  would'st 

venture  so. 
Simp.  Alas,  good  master,  my  wife  desir'd  some 
damsons, 
And  made  me  climb,  with  danger  of  my  life. 
Glo.    A  subtle  knave !    but   yet  it  shall  not 
serve. — 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


Let  me  see  thine  eyes  : — wink  now  ; — now  open 

them : — 
In  my  opinion  yet  thou  see'st  not  well. 

Simp.  Yes,  master,  clear  as  day ;  I  thank  God, 
and  Saint  Alban. 

Glo.  Say'st  thou  me  so  ?     What  colour  is  this 
cloak  of? 

Simp.  Red,  master ;  red  as  blood. 

Glo.    Why,  that  's  well  said :  What  colour  is 
my  gown  of? 

Simp.  Black,  forsooth  ;  coal-black,  as  jet. 

K.  Hen.  Why  then,  thou  know'st  what  colour 
jet  is  of? 

Suf.  And  yet,  I  think,  jet  did  he  never  see. 

Glo.  But  cloaks,  and  gowns,  before  this  day,  a 
many. 

Wife.  Never,  before  this  day,  in  all  his  life. 

Glo.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  what  's  my  name  ? 

Simp.  Alas,  master,  I  know  not. 

Glo.  What 's  his  name " 

Simp.  I  know  not. 

Glo.  Nor  his  ? 

Simp.  No,  indeed,  master. 

Glo.  What  's  thine  own  name  ? 

Simp.  Saunder  Simpcox,  an  if  it  please  you, 
master. 

Glo.  Then,  Saunder,  sit  thou  there,  the  lyingest 
knave 
In  Christendom.     If  thou  hadst  been  born  blind, 
Thou  might'st  as  well  have  known  our  names,  as  thus 
To  name  the  several  colours  we  do  wear. 
Sight  may  distinguish  of  colours  ;  but  suddenly 
To  nominate  them  all,  's  impossible. — 
My  lords.  Saint  Alban  here  hath  done  a  miracle ; 
And  would  ye  not  think  that  cunning  to  be  great. 
That  could  restore  this  cripple  to  his  legs  ? 

Simp.  0,  master,  that  you  could  ! 

Glo.  My  masters  of  Saint  Albans,  have  you  not 
beadles  in  your  town,  and  things  called  whips  ? 

May.  Yes,  my  lord,  if  it  please  your  grace. 

Glo.  Then  send  for  one  presently. 

May.  Sirrah,  go  fetch  the  beadle  hither  straight. 

[^Exit  an  Attend. 

Glo.  Now  fetch  me  a  stool  hither  by  and  by,  \^A 
Stool  brought  out^  Now,  sirrah,  if  you  mean  to 
save  yourself  from  whipping,  leap  me  over  this 
stool,  and  run  away. 

Simp.  Alas,  master,  I  am  not  able  to  stand 
alone  :  You  go  about  to  torture  me  in  vain. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Beadle. 
Glo.  Well,  sir,  we  must  have  you  find  your  legs. 


Sirrah  Beadle,  whip  him  till  he  leap  ovei  that  same 
stool. 

Bead.  I  will,  my  lord. — Come  on,  sirrah  ;  ofi 
with  your  doublet  quickly. 

Simp.  Alas,  master,  what  shall  I  do?     I  am 
not  able  to  stand. 

\^After  the  Beadle  hath  hit  him  once.,  he  leaps 
over  the  Stool,  and  runs  away ;  and  the 
People  follow,  and  cry,  A  Miracle/ 
K.  Hen.  O  God,  see'st  thou  this,  and  bear'st  so 

long? 
Q.  Mar.  It  made  me  laugh,  to  see  the  villain 

run. 
Glo.    Follow  the  knave  ;    and  take  this  drab 

away. 
Wife.  Alas,  sir,  we  did  it  for  pure  need. 
Glo.  Let  them  be  whipped  through  every  market 
town,  till   they  come  to  Berwick,  whence  they 
came.  \Exeunt  May.,  Bead.,  Wife,  <S:c. 

Car.  Duke  Humphrey  has  done  a  miracle  to- 
day. 
Suf  True;  made  the  lame  to  leap,  and  fly  away 
Glo.  But  you  have  done  more  miracles  than  I 
You  made,  in  a  day,  my  lord,  whole  towns  to  fly. 

Enter  Buckingham. 

K.  Hen.  What  tidings  with  our  cousin  Buck- 
ingham ? 
Buck.    Such    as    my   heart  doth   tremble   to 
unfold. 
A  sort  of  naughty  persons,  lewdly  bent, — 
Under  the  countenance  and  confederacy 
Of  lady  Eleanor,  the  protector's  wife. 
The  ringleader  and  head  of  all  this  rout, — 
Have  practis'd  dangerously  against  your  state, 
Dealing  with  witches,  and  with  conjurers: 
Whom  we  have  apprehended  in  the  fact ; 
Raising  up  wicked  spirits  from  under  ground, 
Demanding  of  king  Henry's  life  and  death, 
And  other  of  your  highness'  privy  council, 
As  more  at  large  your  grace  shall  understand. 

Car.  And  so,  my  lord  protector,  by  this  means 
Your  lady  is  forthcoming  yet  at  London. 
This   news,  I  think,  hath   turn'd  your  weapon's 

edge; 
'T  is  like,  my  lord,  you  will  not  keep  your  hour. 

\^Aside  to  Glo 
Glo.  Ambitious  churchman,  leave  to  aflBict  mj 
heart ! 
Sorrow  and  grief  have  vanquish'd  all  my  powers 
And,  vanquish'd  as  I  am,  I  yield  to  thee. 
Or  to  the  meanest  groom. 

917 


ACT   II. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE   n. 


K.  Hen.  0  God,  what  mischiefs  work  the  wicked 

ones ; 
Heaping  confusion  on  their  own  heads  thereby ! 
Q.  Mar.  Gloster,  see  here  the  tainture  of  thy 

nest; 
And,  look,  thyself  be  faultless,  thou  wert  best. 

Glo.  Madam,  for  myself,  to  heaven  I  do  appeal, 
How  I  have  lov'd  my  king,  and  commonweal : 
And,  for  my  wife,  I  know  not  how  it  stands ; 
Sorry  I  am  to  hear  what  I  have  heard : 
Noble  she  is  ;  but  if  she  have  forgot 
Honour  and  virtue,  and  convers'd  with  such 
As,  like  to  pitch,  defile  nobility, 
I  banish  her,  my  bed,  and  company ; 
And  give  her,  as  a  prey,  to  law,  and  shame. 
That  hath  dishonour'd  Gloster's  honest  name. 
K.  Hen.  Well,  for  this  night,  we  will  repose  us 

here, 
To-morrow,  toward  London;  back  again, 
To  look  into  this  business  thoroughly, 
A.nd  call  these  foul  offenders  to  their  answers ; 
And  poise  the  cause  in  justice'  equal  scales. 
Whose  bearn   stands  sure,  whose   rightful  cause 

prevails.  [Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE   IL— London.     The  Duke  of  York's 
Garden. 

Enter  York,  Salisbury,  and  Warwick, 

York.    Now,  my  good  lords  of  Salisbury  and 
Warwick, 
Our  simple  supper  ended,  give  me  leave. 
In  this  close  walk,  to  satisfy  myself, 
In  craving  your  opinion  of  my  title. 
Which  is  infallible,  to  England's  crown. 
Sal.  My  lord,  I  long  to  hear  it  at  full. 
War.  Sweet  York,  begin  :  and  if  thy  claim  be 
good. 
The  Nevils  are  thy  subjects  to  command. 

York.  Then  thus  : — 
Edward  the  Third,  ray  lords,  had  seven  sons : 
The  first,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  Prince  of 

Wales ; 
The  second,  William  of  Hatfield  ;  and  the  third, 
Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence  ;  next  to  whom. 
Was  John  of  Gaunt,  the  duke  of  Lancaster : 
The  fifth,  was  Edmund  Langley,  duke  of  York  ; 
The  sixth,  was  Thomas  of  Woodstock,  duke  of 

Gloster ; 
William  of  Windsor  was  the  seventh,  and  last. 
Edward,  the  Black  Prince,  died  before  his  father. 
And  left  behind  him  Richard,  bis  only  son, 
918 


Who,  after  Edward  the  Third's  death,  reign'd  as 

king; 
Till  Henry  Bolingbroke,  duke  of  Lancaster, 
The  eldest  son  and  heir  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
Crown'd  by  the  name  of  Henry  the  Fourth, 
Seiz'd  on  the  realm  ;  deposed  the  rightful  king ; 
Sent  his  poor  queen  to  France,  from  whence  she 

came. 
And  him  to  Pomfret;  where,  as  all  you  know, 
Harmless  Richard  was  murder'd  traitorously. 

War.  Father,  the  duke  hath  told  the  truth ; 
Thus  got  the  house  of  Lancaster  the  crown. 

York.  Which  now  they  hold  by  force,  and  not 
by  right ; 
For  Richard,  the  first  son's  heir,  being  dead. 
The  issue  of  the  next  son  should  have  reign'd. 

Sal.  But  WiUiam  of  Hatfield  died  without  an 
heir, 

York.  The  third  son,  duke  of  Clarence,  (from 
whose  line 
I  claim  the  crown,)  had  issue — Phillippe,  a  daugh- 
ter. 
Who  married  Edmund  Mortimer,  earl  of  March  ; 
Edmund  had  issue — Roger,  earl  of  March  : 
Roger  had  issue — Edmund,  Anne,  and  Eleanor. 

Sal.  This  Edmund,  in  the  reign  of  Bolingbroke, 
As  I  have  read,  laid  claim  unto  the  crown  ; 
And,  but  for  Owen  Glendower,  had  been  king. 
Who  kept  him  in  captivity,  till  he  died. 
But,  to  the  rest. 

York.  His  eldest  sister,  Anne, 

My  mother,  being  heir  unto  the  crown. 
Married  Richard,  earl  of  Cambridge ;  who  was  son 
To  Edmund  Langley,  Edward  the  Third's  fifth 

son. 
By  her  I  claim  the  kingdom :  she  was  heir 
To  Roger,  earl  of  March  ;  who  was  the  son 
Of  Edmund  Moitimer  ;  who  married  Phillippe, 
Sole  daughter  unto  Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence : 
So,  if  the  issue  of  the  elder  son 
Succeed  before  the  younger,  I  am  king. 

War.  What  plain  proceedings  are  more  plain 
than  this? 
Henry  doth  claim  the  crown  from  John  of  Gaunt 
The. fourth  son  :  York  claims  it  from  the  third. 
Till  Lionel's  issue  fails,  his  should  not  reign : 
It  fails  not  yet ;  but  flourishes  in  thee, 
And  in  thy  sons,  fair  slips  of  such  a  stock. — ^■ 
Then,  father  Salisbury,  kneel  we  both  together ; 
And,  in  this  private  plot,  be  we  the  first, 
That  shall  salute  our  rightful  sovereign 
With  honour  of  his  birthright  to  the  crown. 


K1I{G  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE   ni. 


Both.   Long  live  our  sovereign  Richard,  Eng- 
land's king ! 
York.  We  thank  you,  lords.     But  I  am  not 
your  king 
Till  I  be  crown'd ;  and  that  ray  sword  be  stain'd 
With  heart-blood  of  the  house  of  Lancaster : 
And  that 's  not  suddenly  to  be  perform'd ; 
But  with  advice,  and  silent  secrecy. 
Do  you,  as  I  do,  in  these  dangerous  days, 
Wink  at  the  duke  of  Suffolk's  insolence, 
At  Beaufort's  pride,  at  Somerset's  ambition, 
At  Buckingham,  and  all  the  crew  of  them, 
Till  they  have  snar'd  the  shepherd  of  the  flock, 
That  virtuous  prince,  the  good  duke  Humphrey : 
'T  is  that  they  seek ;  and  they,  in  seeking  that. 
Shall  find  their  deaths,  if  York  can  prophesy. 
Sal.   My  lord,  break  we  off;  we  know  your 

mind  at  full. 
War.   My  heart  assures  me,  that  the  earl  of 
Warwick 
Shall  one  day  make  the  duke  of  York  a  king. 

Yo?-k.  And,  Nevil,  this  I  do  assure  myself, — 
Richard  shall  live  to  make  the  earl  of  Warwick 
The  greatest  man  in  England,  but  the  king. 

l^JSxeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Hall  of  Justice. 

Trumpets  sounded.  Enter  King  Henry,  Queen 
Margaret,  Gloster,  York,  Suffolk,  and 
Salisbury  ;  the  Duchess  of  Gloster,  Mar- 
gery Jourdain,  Southwell,  Hume,  and  Bo- 
lingbroke,  under  guard. 

K.  Hen.  Stand  forth,  dame  Eleanor   Cobham, 
Gloster's  wife : 
In  sight  of  God,  and  us,  your  guilt  is  great; 
Receive  the  sentence  of  the  law,  for  sins 
Such  as  by  God's  book  are  adjudg'd  to  death. — 
You  four,  from  hence  to  pnson  back  again ; 

\To  JouRD.,  &c. 
From  thence,  unto  the  place  of  execution  : 
The  witch  in  Smithfield  shall  be  burn'd  to  ashes. 
And  you  three  shall  be  strangled  on  the  gallows. — 
You,  madam,  for  you  are  more  nobly  born. 
Despoiled  of  your  honour  in  your  life. 
Shall,  after  three  days'  open  penance  done. 
Live  in  your  country  here,  in  banishment, 
With  sir  John  Stanley,  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Duch.  Welcome  is  banishment,  welcome  were 

my  death. 
Olo.  Eleanor,  the  law,  thou  seest,  hath  judged 
thee; 


I  cannot  justify  whom  the  law  condemns. — ■ 

[Exeunt  the  Duch.,  and  the  other  Prisoners 
guarded. 
Mine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  grief. 
Ah,  Humphrey,  this  dishonour  in  thine  age 
Will  bring  thy  head  with  sorrow  to  the  ground ! 
I  baseech  your  majesty,  give  me  leave  to  go ; 
Sorrow  would  solace,  and  mine  age  would  ease. 
K.  Hen.  Stay,  Humphrey  duke  of  Gloster :  ere 
thou  go, 
Give  up  thy  staff ;  Henry  will  to  himself 
Protector  be :  and  God  shall  be  my  hope. 
My  stay,  my  guide,  and  lantern  to  my  feet. 
And  go  in  peace,  Humphrey;  no  less  belov'd. 
Than  when  thou  wert  protector  to  thy  king. 

Q.  Mar.  I  see  no  reason,  why  a  king  of  years 
Should  be  to  be  protected  like  a  child. — 
God  and  king  Henry  govern  England's  helm : 
Give  up  your  staff,  sir,  and  the  king  his  realm. 
Glo.    My  staff? — here,   noble   Henry,   is    my 
staff: 
As  willingly  do  I  the  same  resign. 
As  e'er  thy  father  Henry  made  it  mine ; 
And  even  as  willingly  at  thy  feet  I  leave  it. 
As  others  would  ambitiously  receive  it. 
Farewell,  good  king :  When  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
May  honourable  peace  attend  thy  throne !    [Exit. 
Q.  Mar.  Why,  now  is  Henry  king,  and  Mar- 
garet queen ; 
And  Humphrey,  duke  of  Gloster,  scarce  himself. 
That  bears  so  shrewd    a   maim  ;    two  pulls  a 

once, — 
His  lady  banish'd,  and  a  limb  lopp'd  off; 
This  staff  of  honour  raught : — There  let  it  stand, 
Where  it  best  fits  to  be,  in  Henry's  hand. 

Suf.  Thus  droops  this  lofty  pine,  and  hangs  hia 
sprays ; 
Thus  Eleanor's  pride  dies  in  her  proudest  days, 
Yo7'k.  Lords,  let  him  go." — Please  it  your  ma- 
jesty,   . 
This  is  the  day  appointed  for  the  combat ; 
And  ready  are  the  appellant  and  defendant, 
The  armourer  and  his  man,  to  enter  the  lists, 
So  please  your  highness  to  behold  the  fight. 
Q.  Mar.    Ay,  good   my  lord  ;    for  purposely 
therefore 
Left  I  the  court,  to  see  this  quarrel  tried. 

K.  Hen.  O'  God's  name,  see  the  lists  and  all 
things  fit ; 
Here   let    them    end    it,   and   God   defend    the 

right ! 
•   York.  I  never  saw  a  fellow  worse  bested," 

919 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    ]▼. 


Or  more  afraid  to  fight,  than  is  the  appellant, 
The  servant  of  this  armourer,  my  lords. 

Enter,  on  one  side,  Horner,  and  his  Neighbours, 
drinking  to  him  so  much  that  he  is  drunk ; 
and  he  enters  bearing  his  staff  with  a  sand- 
bag fastened  to  it ;  a  drum  before  him :  at 
the  other  side,  Peter,  with  a  drum  and  a  simi- 
lar staff ;  accompanied  by  'Prentices  drinking 
to  him. 

1st  Neigh.  Here,  neighbour  Horner,  I  drink  to 
you  in  a  cup  of  sack :  And  fear  not,  neighbour, 
you  shall  do  well  enough. 

2nd  Neigh.  And  here,  neighbour,  here  's  a  cup 
of  charneco.''* 

Zrd  Neigh,  And  here  's  a  pot  of  good  double 
beer,  neighbour :  drink,  and  fear  not  your  man. 

Hor.  Let  it  come,  i'  faith,  and  I  '11  pledge  you 
all :  And  a  fig  for  Peter ! 

\st  Pren.  Here,  Peter,  I  drink  to  thee ;  and  be 
not  afraid. 

2nd  Pren.  Be  merry,  Peter,  and  fear  not  thy 
master ;  fight  for  credit  of  the  'prentices.     . 

Peter.  I  thank  you  all :  drink,  and  pray  for 
me,  I  pray  you  :  for,  I  think,  I  have  taken  my 
last  draught  in  this  world. — Here,  Robin,  an  if  I 
die,  I  give  thee  my  apron  ;  and,  Will,  thou  shalt 
have  my  hammer : — and  here,  Tom,  take  all  the 
money  that  I  have. — 0  Lord,  bless  me,  I  pray 
God  !  for  I  am  never  able  to  deal  with  my  master, 
he  hath  learnt  so  much  fence  already. 

Sal.  Come,  leave  your  drinking,  and  fall  to 
blows. — Sirrah,  what 's  thy  name  ? 

Peter.  Peter,  forsooth. 

Sal.  Peter !  what  more  ? 

Peter.  Thump. 

Sal.  Thump !  then  see  thou  thump  thy  master 
well. 

Hor.  Masters,  I  am  come  hither,  as  it  were, 
upon  my  man's  instigation,  to  prove  him  a  knave, 
and  myself  an  honest  man  :  and  touching  the  duke 
of  York, — will  take  my  death,  I  never  meant  him 
any  ill,  nor  the  king,  nor  the  queen  :  And  there- 
fore, Peter,  have  at  thee  with  a  downright  blow, 
as  Bevis  of  Southampton  fell  upon  Ascapart. 

York.  Despatch  : — this  knave's  tongue  begins 
to  double. 
Sound  trumpets,  alarum  to  the  combatants. 

\Alaruni.     They  fight,  and  Peter  strikes 
down  his  master. 

Hor.  Hold,  Peter,  hold !  I  confess,  I  confess 
treason.  [Diesi 

B80 


York.  Take  away  his  weapon  : — Fellow,  thank 
God,  and  the  good  wine  in  thy  master's  way. 

Peter.  O  God !  have  I  overcome  mine  enemies 
in  this  presence  ?  0  Peter,  thou  hast  prevailed 
in  right ! 

K.  Hen.  Go,  take  hence  that  traitor  from  o  r 
sight ; 
For,  by  his  death,  we  do  perceive  his  guilt  :'* 
And  God,  in  justice,  hath  reveal'd  to  us 
The  truth  and  innocence  of  this  poor  fellow. 
Which  he  had  thought  to  have  murder'd  wrong- 

fully.- 
Come,  fellow,  follow  us  for  thy  reward.      [^Exeunt 

SCENE  lY.—The  Same.     A  Street. 
Enter  Gloster  and  Servants,  in  mourning  Cloaks. 

Glo.  Thus,  sometimes,  hath  the  brightest  day 
a  cloud ; 
And,  after  summer,  evermore  succeeds 
Barren  winter,  with  las  wrathful  nipping  cold  : 
So  cares  and  joys  abound,  as  seasons  fleet- 
Sirs,  what 's  o'clock  ? 

Serv.  Ten,  rny  lord. 

Olo.  Ten  is  the  hour  that  was  appointed  me, 
To  watch  the  coming  of  my  punish'd  duchess  : 
Uneath'®  may  she  endure  the  flinty  streets, 
To  tread  them  with  her  tender-feeling  feet. 
Sweet  Nell,  ill  can  thy  noble  mind  abrook 
The  abject  people,  gazing  on  thy  face, 
With  envious  looks  still  laughing  at  thy  shame , 
That  erst  did  follow  thy  proud  chariot  wheels, 
When  thou  didst  ride  in  triumph  through  the 

streets. 
But,  soft !  I  think,  she  comes ;  and  I  '11  prepare 
My  tear-stain'd  eyes  to  see  her  miseries. 

Enter  the  Duchess  of  Gloster,  in  a  white  sheet, 
with  papers  pinned  upon  her  back,  her  feet  bare, 
and  a  taper  burning  in  her  hand;  Sir  John 
Stanley,  a  Sheriff,  and  Officers. 

Serv.  So  please  your  grace,  we  '11  take  her  from 

the  sheriff. 
Glo.    No,   stir   not  for   your   lives ;    let   her 

pass  by. 
Duch.    Come  you,  ray  lord,  to  see  my  open 
shame  ? 
Now  thou  dost  penance  too.     Look,  how  they 

gaze ! 
See,  how  the  giddy  multitude  do  point, 
And  nod  their  heads,  and  throw  their  eyes  oo 
thee  I 


KI?^G  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    IV. 


All,  Gloster,  hide  thee  from  their  hateful  looks  ; 
And,  in  thy  closet  pent  up,  rue  my  shame, 
And  ban  thine  enemies,  both  mine  and  thine, 

Olo.  Be  patient,  gentle  Nell ;  forget  this  grief. 

Duch.  Ah,  Gloster,  teach  me  to  forget  myself: 
For,  whilst  I  think  I  am  thy  married  wife. 
And  thou  a  prince,  protector  of  this  land, 
Mef^inks,  I  should  not  thus  be  led  along, 
Mail'd  up  in  shame,  with  papers  on  my  back  ; 
And  follow'd  with  a  rabble,  that  rejoice 
To  see  my  tears,  and  hear  my  deep-fet  groans. 
The  ruthless  flint  doth  cut  my  tender  feet ; 
And,  when  I  start,  the  envious  people  laugh. 
And  bid  me  be  advised  how  I  tread. 
Ah,  Humphrey,  can  I  bear  this  shameful  yoke  ? 
Trow'st  thou,  that  e'er  I  '11  look  upon  the  world ; 
Or  count  them  happy,  that  enjoy  the  sun  ? 
No  ;  dark  shall  be  my  light,  and  night  my  day ; 
To  think  upon  my  pomp,  shall  be  my  hell. 
Sometime  I  '11  say,  I  am  duke  Humphrey's  wife ; 
And  he  a  prince,  and  ruler  of  the  land  : 
Yet  so  he  rul'd,  and  such  a  prince  he  was. 
As  he  stood  by,  whilst  I,  his  forlorn  duchess, 
Was  made  a  wonder,  and  a  pointing-stock, 
To  every  idle  rascal  follower. 
But  be  thou  mild,  and  blush  not  at  my  shame; 
Nor  stir  at  nothing,  till  the  axe  of  de.ith 
Hang  over  thee,  as,  sure,  it  shortly  will. 
For  Suftblk, — he  that  can  do  all  in  all 
With  her,  that  hateth  thee,  and  hates  us  all, — 
And  York,  and  impious  Beaufort,  that  false  priest. 
Have  all  lim'd  bushes  to  betray  thy  wings. 
And,  fly  thou  how  thou  canst,  they  '11  tangle  thee : 
But  fear  not  thou,  until  thy  foot  be  snar'd, 
Nor  never  seek  prevention  of  thy  foes. 

Glo.  Ah,  Nell,  forbear ;  thou  aimest  all  awry ; 
I  must  offend,  before  I  be  attainted  : 
And  had  I  twenty  times  so  many  foes, 
And  each  of  them  had  twenty  times  their  power. 
All  these  could  not  procure  me  any  scathe, 
So  long  as  I  am  loyal,  true,  and  crimeless. 
Would'st  have  me  rescue  thee  from  this  reproach  ? 
Why,  yet  thy  scandal  were  not  v/ip'd  away, 
But  I  in  danger  for  the  breach  of  law. 
Thy  greatest  help  is  quiet,  gentle  Nell : 
I  pray  thee,  sort  thy  heart  to  patience ; 
These  few  days'  wonder  will  be  quickly  worn. 

Enter  a  Herald. 

Her.  I  summon  your  grace  to  his  majesty's 
parliarnpnt,  holden  at  Bury  the  first  of  this  next 
mouth. 

116 


Glo.  And  my  consent  ne'er  ask'd  herein  before ! 
This  is  close  dealing. — Well,  I  will  be  there. 

\Exit  Her. 
My  Nell,  T  take  my  leave  : — and,  master  sheriff. 
Let  not  her  penance  exceed  the  king's  commission. 
Sher.  An  't  please  your  grace,  here  my  com- 
mission stays : 
And  sir  John  Stanley  is  appointed  now 
To  take  her  with  him  to  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Glo.  Must  you,  sir  John,  protect  my  lady  here? 
Stan.  So  am  I  given  in  charge,  may  't  please 

your  grace. 
Glo.  Entreat  her  not  the  worse,  in  that  I  pray 
You  use  her  well :  the  world  may  laugh  again ; 
And  I  may  live  to  do  you  kindness,  if 
You  do  it  her.     And  so,  sir  John,  farewell. 

Duch.  What  gone,  my  lord ;  and  bid  me  not 

farewell  ? 
Glo.  Witness  my  tears,  I  cannot  stay  to  speak. 
[Exeunt  Glo.,  and  Servants. 
Duch.  Art  thou  gone  too  ?     All  comfort   go 
with  thee ! 
For  none  abides  with  me :  my  joy  is — death  ; 
Death,  at  whose  name  I  oft  have  been  afear'd, 
Because  I  wish'd  this  world's  eternity. — 
Stanley,  I  pr'ythee,  go,  and  take  me  hence ; 
I  care  not  whither,  for  I  beg  no  favour. 
Only  convey  me  where  thou  art  commanded. 

Stan.  Why,  madam,  that  is  to  the  Isle  of  Man ; 
There  to  be  used  according  to  your  state. 

Duch.    That 's  bad  enough,  for  I  am  but  re- 
proach : 
And  shall  I  then  be  us'd  reproachfully  ? 

Stan.  Like  to  a  duchess,  and  duke  Humphrey's 
lady. 
According  to  that  state  you  shall  be  used. 

Duch.  Sheriff,  farewell,  and  better  than  I  fare ; 
Although  thou  hast  been  conduct  of  my  shame  I 
Sher.    It  is  my  office  ;    and,  madam,  pardon 

me. 
Duch,    Ay,   ay,   farewell ;    thy    office   is   dis- 
charg'd. — 
Come,  Stanley,  shall  we  go  ? 

Stan.  Madam,  your  penance  done,  throw  ofl 
this  sheet. 
And  go  we  to  attire  you  for  our  journey 

Duch.  My  shame  will  not  be  shifted  with  my 
sheet : 
No,  it  will  hang  upon  my  richest  robes, 
And  show  itself,  attire  me  how  I  can. 
Go,  lead  the  way ;  I  long  to  see  my  prison. 

[Exeunt 
921 


▲OT   III. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


"1 


SCENK    U 


ACT    III 


SCENE  I.— The  Abbey  at  Bury. 

Enter  to  the  Parliament,  King  Henry,  Queen 
Margaret,  Cardinal  Beaufort,  Suffolk, 
York,  Buckingham,  and  Others. 

K.  Hen.    I  muse,  my  lord  of  Gloster  is  not 
come : 
'T  is  not  his  wont  to  be  the  hindmost  man, 
Whate'er  occasion  keeps  him  from  us  now. 

Q.  Mar.  Can  you  not  see  ?  or  will  you  not  oh- 
sei've 
The  strangeness  of  his  alter'd  countenance  ? 
With  what  a  majesty  he  bears  himself; 
How  insolent  of  late  he  is  become. 
How  proud,  peremptory,  and  unlike  himself? 
We  know  the  time,  since  he  was  mild  and  affable ; 
And,  if  we  did  but  glance  a  far-off  look, 
Immediately  he  was  upon  his  knee. 
That  all  the  court  admir'd  him  for  submission : 
But  meet  him  now,  and,  be  it  in  the  morn, 
When  every  one  will  give  the  time  of  day, 
He  knits  his  brow,  and  shows  an  angry  eye, 
And  passeth  by  with  stiff  unbowed  knee. 
Disdaining  duty  that  to  us  belongs. 
Small  curs  are  not  regarded,  when  they  grin  ; 
But  great  men  tremble,  when  the  Hon  roars ; 
And  Humphrey  is  no  httle  man  in  England. 
First,  note,  that  he  is  near  you  in  descent ; 
And  should  you  fall,  he  is  the  next  will  mount. 
Me  seemeth  then,  it  is  no  policy, — 
Respecting  what  a  rancorous  mind  he  bears. 
And  his  advantage  following  your  decease, — 
That  he  shcild  come  about  your  royal  person. 
Or  be  admitted  to  your  highness'  council. 
By  flattery  hath  he  won  the  commons'  hearts ; 
And,  when  he  please  to  "make  commotion, 
'T  is  to  be  fear'd,  they  all  will  follow  him. 
Now  't  is  the  spring,  and  weeds   are  shallow- 
rooted  ; 
Suffer  them  now,  and  they  '11  o'ergrow  the  garden, 
And  choke  the  herbs  for  want  of  husbandry. 
The  reverent  care,  I  bear  unto  my  lord, 
Made  me  collect  these  dangers  in  the  duke. 
Tf  \\  be  fond,  call  it  a  woman's  fear ; 

922 


Which  fear  if  better  reasons  can  supplant, 
I  will  subscribe  and  say — I  wrong'd  the  duke. 
My  lord  of  Suffolk, — Buckingham, — and  York.— 
Reprove  my  allegation,  if  you  can  ; 
Or  else  conclude  my  words  effectual. 

Suf.    Well  hath  your  highness  seen  into  this 
duke  ; 
And,  had  T  first  been  put  to  speak  my  mind, 
I  think,  I  should  have  told  your  grace's  tale. 
The  duchess,  by  his  subornation. 
Upon  my  life,  began  her  devilish  practices  • 
Or  if  he  were  not  privy  to  those  faults, 
Yet,  by  reputing  of  his  high  descent, 
(As  next  the  king,  he  was  successive  heir,) 
And  such  high  vaunts  of  his  nobility, 
Did  instigate  the  bedlam  brain-sick  duchess. 
By  wicked  means  to  frame  our  sovereign's  fall. 
Smooth  runs  the  water,  where  the  brook  is  deep ; 
And  in  his  simple  show  he  harbours  treason. 
The  fox  barks  not,  when  he  would  steal  the  lamb. 
No,  no,  my  sovereign ;  Gloster  is  a  man 
Unsounded  yet,  and  full  of  deep  deceit. 

Car.  Did  he  not,  contrary  to  form  of  la\v, 
Devise  strange  deaths  for  small  offences  done  ? 
3^0?-^.  And  did  he  not,  in  his  protectorship. 
Levy  great  sums  of  money  through  the  realm. 
For  soldiers'  pay  in  France,  and  never  sent  it? 
By  means  whereof,  the  towns  each  day  revolted. 
Buck.  Tut !  these  are  petty  faults  to  faults  un- 
known. 
Which  time  will  bring  to  light  in  smooth  duke 
Humphrey. 
K.  Hen.  My  lords,  at  once :  The  care  you  have 
of  us. 
To  mow  down  thorns  that  would  annoy  our  foot. 
Is  worthy  praise  :  But  shall  I  speak  my  conscience  ? 
Our  kinsman  Gloster  is  as  innocent 
From  meaning  treason  to  our  royal  person. 
As  is  the  sucking  lamb,  or  harmless  dove  : 
The  duke  is  virtuous,  mild  ;  and  too  well  given, 
To  dream  on  evil,  or  to  work  my  downfall. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah,  what 's  more  dangerous  than  this 
fond  affiance  ? 
Seems  he  a  dove  ?  his  feathers  are  but  boirow'd. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENS    I. 


For  he  's  disposed  as  the  hateful  raven. 
Is  he  a  lamb  ?  his  skin  is  surely  lent  him, 
For  he  's  inclin'd  as  are  the  ravenous  wolves. 
Who  cannot  steal  a  shape,  that  means  deceit  ? 
Take  heed,  my  lord ;  the  welfare  of  us  all 
Hangs  on  the  cuttmg  short  that  fraudful  man. 

Enter  Somerset. 

Som.  All  health  unto  my  gracious  sovereign  ! 
K.  Hen.  Welcome,  lord  Somerset.    What  news 

from  France  ? 
Som.  That  all  your  interest  in  those  territories 
-s  utterly  bereft  you  ;  all  is  lost. 

K.  Hen.  Cold  news,  lord  Somerset :  but  God's 

will  be  done ! 
York.  Cold  news  for  me ;  for  I  had  hojje  of 
France, 
As  firmly  as  I  hope  for  fertile  England. 
Thus  are  my  blossoms  blasted  in  the  bud, 
And  caterpillars  eat  my  leaves  away  : 
But  I  will  remedy  this  gear  ere  long, 
Or  sell  my  title  for  a  glorious  grave.  [Aside. 

Enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  All  happiness  unto  my  lord  the  king. 
Pardon,  my  liege,  that  I  have  staid  so  long. 

Suf.  Nay,  Gloster,  know,  that  thou  art  come 
too  soon. 
Unless  thou  wert  more  loyal  than  thou  art : 
[  do  arrest  thee  of  high  treason  here. 

Glo.  Well,  Suffolk's  duke,  thou  shalt  not  see 
me  blush, 
Nor  change  my  countenance  for  this  arrest ; 
A  heart  unspotted  is  not  easily  daunted. 
The  purest  spring  is  not  so  free  from  mud, 
As  I  am  clear  from  treason  to  my  sovereign  : 
Who  can  accuse  me?  wherein  am  I  guilty? 

York.  '  T  is  thought,  my  lord,  that  you  took 
bribes  of  France, 
And,  being  protector,  stayed  the  soldiers'  pay  ; 
By  means  whereof,  his  highness  hath  lost  France. 

Glo.  Is  it  but  thought  so  ?    What  are  they  that 
think  it  ? 
I  never  robb'd  the  soldiers  of  their  pay. 
Nor  ever  had  one  penny  bribe  from  France. 
So  help  me  God,  as  I  have  watch'd  the  night, — 
Ay,  night  by  night, — in  studying  good  for  Eng- 
land 1 
That  doit  that  e'er  I  wrested  from  the  king, 
Or  any  groat  I  hoarded  to  my  use. 
Be  brought  against  me  at  my  trial  day  ! 
No  1  many  a  pound  of  mine  own  proper  store. 


Because  I  would  not  tax  the  needy  commons. 
Have  I  dispursed  to  the  garrisons. 
And  never  ask'd  for  restitution. 

Car.  It  serves  you  well,  my  lord,  to  say  so  much. 

Glo.  I  say  no  more  than  truth,  so  help  me  God  1 

York.  In  your  protectorship,  you  did  devise 
Strange  tortures  for  offenders,  never  heard  of, 
That  England  was  defam'd  by  tyranny. 

Glo.  Why,  't  is  well  known,  that  whiles  I  was 
protector. 
Pity  was  all  the  fault  that  was  in  me  ; 
For  I  should  melt  at  an  offender's  tears. 
And  lowly  words  were  ransom  for  their  fault. 
Unless  it  were  a  bloody  murderer. 
Or  foul  felonious  thief  that  fleec'd  poor  passengers, 
I  never  gave  them  condign  punishment : 
Murder,  indeed,  that  bloody  sin,  I  tortur'd 
Above  the  felon,  or  what  trespass  else. 

Suf.  My  lord,  these  faults  are  easy,  quickly  an- 
swer'd : 
But  mightier  crimes  are  laid  unto  your  charge. 
Whereof  you  cannot  easily  purge  yourself. 
I  do  arrest  you  in  his  highness'  name  ; 
And  here  commit  you  to  ray  lord  cardinal 
To  keep,  until  your  further  time  of  trial. 

K.  Hen.   My  lord  of  Gloster,  't  is  my  special 
hope. 
That  you  will  clear  yourself  from  all  suspects ; 
My  conscience  tells  me,  you  are  innocent. 

Glo.  Ah,  gracious  lord,  these  days  are  danger- 
ous I 
Virtue  is  chok'd  with  foul  ambition. 
And  charity  chas'd  hence  by  rancour's  hand  ; 
Foul  subornation  is  predominant. 
And  equity  exil'd  your  highness'  land. 
I  know,  their  complot  is  to  have  my  life  ; 
And,  if  my  death  might  make  this  island  happy. 
And  prove  the  period  of  their  tyranny, 
I  would  expend  it  with  all  willingness ; 
But  mine  is  made  the  prologue  to  their  play  ; 
For  thousands  more,  that  yet  suspect  no  peril, 
Will  not  conclude  their  plotted  tragedy. 
Beaufort's  red  sparkling  eyes  blab  his  heart's  ma- 
lice. 
And  Suffolk's  cloudy  brow  his  stormy  hate ; 
Sharp  Buckingham  unburdens  with  his  tongue 
The  envious  load  that  lies  upon  his  heart , 
And  dogged  York,  that  reaches  at  the  moon, 
Whose  overweening  arm  I  have  pluck'd  back, 
By  false  accuse  doth  level  at  my  life : — 
And  you,  my  sovereign  lady,  with  the  rest, 
Causeless  have  laid  disgraces  on  my  head ; 
923 


ACT  in. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


And,  with  your  best  endeavour,  have  stirr'd  up 

My  liefest  liege  to  be  mine  enemy  : — 

Ay,  all  of  you  have  laid  your  heads  together : 

Myself  liad  notice  of  your  conventicles. 

I  shall  not  want  false  witness  to  condemn  me, 

Nur  store  of  treasons  to  augment  my  guilt ; 

The  ancient  proverb  will  be  well  affected, — 

A  staff"  is  quickly  found  to  beat  a  dog. 

Car.  My  liege,  his  railing  is  intolerable  : 
If  those  that  care  to  keep  your  royal  person 
Fi-om  treason's  secret  knife,  and  traitors'  rage, 
Be  thus  upbraided,  chid,  and  rated  at, 
And  the  oft'ender  granted  scope  of  speech, 
'T  will  make  them  cool  in  zeal  unto  your  grace. 

Svf.  Hath  he  not  twit  our  sovereign  lady  here. 
With  ignominious  words,  though  clerkly  couch'd. 
As  if  she  had  suborned  some  to  swear 
False  aileafations  to  o'erthrow  his  state  ? 

Q.  Mar.  But  I  can  give  the  loser  leave  to  chide. 
Glo.  Far  truer  spoke,  than  nieant;   I  lose  in- 
deed : — 
Beshrew  the  winners,  for  they  played  me  false ! 
And  well  such  losers  may  have  leave  to  speak. 
Buck.  He  '11  wrest  the  sense,  and  hold  us  here 
all  day : — 
Lord  cardinal,  he  is  your  prisoner. 

Car.  Sirs,  take  away  the  duke,  and  guard  him 

sure. 
Glo.  Ah,  thus  king   Henry  throws    away  his 
crutch. 
Before  his  legs  be  firm  to  bear  his  body  : 
Thus  is  the  shepherd  beaten  from  thy  side, 
And  wolves  are  gnarling  who  shall  gnaw  thee  first. 
Ah,  that  my  fear  were  false  !  ah,  that  it  were  ! 
For,  good  king  Henry,  thy  decay  I  fear. 

\Exeunt  Attendants,  with  Glo. 
K.  Hen.  My  lords,  what  to  your  wisdoms  seem- 
eth  best, 
Do,  or  undo,  as  if  ourself  were  here. 

Q.  Mar.  What,  will  your  highness  leave  tbe 

parliament  ? 
K.  Ren.  Ay,  Margaret;  my  heart  is  drown'd 
with  grief, 
Whose  flood  begins  to  flow  within  mine  eyes ; 
My  body  round  engirt  with  misery; 
For  what's  more  miserable  than  discontent? — 
Ah,  uncle  Humphrey !  in  thy  face  I  see 
The  map  of  honour,  truth,  and  loyalty  ; 
And  yet,  good  Humphrey,  is  the  hour  to  come. 
That  e'er  I  prov'd  thee  false,  or  fear'd  thy  fiiith. 
What  low'ring  star  now  envies  thy  estate, 
That  these  great  lords,  and  Margaret  our  queen, 
924 


Do  seek  subversion  of  thy  harmless  life? 

Thou  never  didst  them  wrong,  nor  no  man  wrong ; 

And  as  the  butcher  takes  away  the  calf. 

And  binds  the  wretch,  and  beats  it  when  it  strays, 

Bearing  it  to  the  bloody  slaughter-house ; 

Even  so,  remorseless,  have  they  borne  him  hence. 

And  as  the  dam  runs  lowing  up  and  down. 

Looking  the  way  her  harmless  young  one  went, 

And  can  do  nought  but  wail  her  darling's  loss ; 

Even  so  myself  bewails  good  Gloster's  case, 

With  sad  unhelpful  tears ;  and  with  dimm'd  eyes 

Look  after  him,  and  cannot  do  him  good ; 

So  mighty  are  his  vowed  enemies. 

His  fortunes  I  will  weep  ;  and,  'twixt  each  groan, 

Say, — "  Who  's  a  traitor,  Gloster  he  is  none." 

[Exit. 

Q.  Mar.  Free  lords,  cold  snow  melts  with  the 
sun's  hot  beams. 
Henry  my  lord  is  cold  in  great  affairs. 
Too  full  of  foolish  pity :  and  Gloster's  show 
Beguiles  him,  as  the  mournful  crocodile 
With  sorrow  snares  relenting  passengers  ; 
Or  as  the  snake,  roll'd  in  a  llowering  bank. 
With  shining  checker'd  slough,  doth  sting  a  child, 
That,  for  the  beauty,  thinks  it  excellent. 
Believe  me,  lords,  were  none  more  wise  than  I, 
(And  yet,  herein,  I  judge  mine  own  wit  good,) 
This  Gloster  should  be  quickly  rid  the  world. 
To  rid  us  from  the  fear  we  have  of  him. 

Car.  That  he  should  die,  is  worthy  policy ; 
But  yet  we  want  a  colour  for  his  death  : 
'T  is  meet,  he  be  conderan'd  by  course  of  law. 

Suf.  But,  in  my  mind,  that  were  no  policy : 
The  king  will  labour  still  to  save  his  life. 
The  commons  haply  rise  to  save  his  life; 
And  yet  we  have  but  trivial  argument, 
More  than  mistrust,  that  shows  him  worthy  death. 

York.  So  that,  by  this,  you  would   not  have 
him  die. 

Suf.  Ah,  York,  no  man  alive  so  fain  as  L 

York.  'T  is  York  that  hath  more  reason  for  his 
death. — 
But,  my  lord    cardinal,    and   you,  my  lord    of 

Suffolk,— 
Say  as  you  think,  and  speak  it  from  your  souls, — 
Wer  't  not  all  one,  an  empty  eagle  were  set 
To  guard  the  chicken  from  a  hungry  kite. 
As  place  duke  Humphrey  for  the  king's  protector? 

Q.  Mar.  So  the  poor  chicken  should  be  sure  of 
death. 

Suf.  Madam,  't  is  true :  And  wer 't  not  mad- 
ness then. 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


To  maka  tbe  fox  surveyor  of  the  fold  ? 
Who  being  accus'd  a  crafty  murderer, 
His  guilt  should  be  but  idly  posted  over, 
Because  his  purpose  is  not  executed. 
No ;  let  him  die,  in  that  he  is  a  fox, 
By  nature  prov'd  an  enemy  to  the  flock, 
Before  his  chaps  be  stain'd  with  crimson  blood ; 
As  Humphrey,  prov'd  by  reasons,  to  my  liege. 
And  do  not  stand  on  quillets,  how  to  slay  him : 
Be  it  by  gins,  by  snares,  by  subtilty, 
Sleeping,  or  waking,  't  is  no  matter  how. 
So  he  be  dead ;  for  that  is  gooi  deceit 
Which  mates  him  first,  that  first  intends  deceit. 

Q.  Mar.    Thrice-noble   Suffolk,  't  is  resolutely 
spoke. 

Suf.  Not  resolute,  except  so  much  were  done ; 
For  things  are  often  spoke,  and  seldom  meant : 
But,  that  my  heart  accordeth  with  my  tongue, — 
Seeing  the  deed  is  meritorious. 
And  to  preserve  my  sovereign  from  his  foe, — 
Say  but  the  word,  and  I  will  be  his  priest. 

Car.  But  I  would  have  him  dead,  my  lord  of 
Suffolk, 
Ere  you  can  take  due  orders  for  a  priest : 
Say,  you  consent,  and  censure  well  the  deed. 
And  I  '11  provide  his  executioner, 
I  tender  so  the  safety  of  my  liege. 

Suf.    Here  is  my  hand,  the  deed  is  worthy 
doing. 

Q.  Mar.  And  so  say  I. 

York.  And  I :  and  now  we  three  have  spoke  it. 
It  skills  not  greatly  who  impugns  our  doom. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.    Great  lords,  from  Ireland   am  I  come 
amain, 
To  signify — that  rebels  there, are  up, 
And  put  the  Englishmen  unto  the  sword : 
Send  succours,  lords,  and  stop  the  rage  betime, 
Before  the  wound  do  grow  incurable ; 
For,  being  green,  there  is  great  hope  of  help. 

Car.    A  breach,  that  craves  a  quick  expedient 
stop. 
What  counsel  give  you  in  this  weighty  cause  ? 

York.  That  Somerset  be  sent  as  regent  thither  : 
T  is  meet,  that  lucky  ruler  be  employ'd  ; 
Witness  the  fortune  he  hath  had  in  France. 

Som.  If  York,  with  all  his  far-set  policy. 
Had  been  the  regent  there  instead  of  me, 
He  nevex  woulr*  have  staid  in  France  so  long. 

York     No,  not  to   lose  it  all,   as   thou   hast 
done : 


I  rather  would  have  lost  my  life  betimes. 
Than  bring  a  burden  of  dishonour  home, 
By  staying  there  so  long,  till  all  were  lost. 
Show  me  one  scar  character'd  on  thy  skin : 
Men's  flesh  preserved  so  whole,  do  seldom  win. 

Q.  Mar.    Nay  then,  this  spark  will   prove  a 
raging  fire, 
If  wind  and  fuel  be  brought  to  feed  it  with : 
No  more,  good  York ;  — sweet  Somerset,  be  still ; — 
Thy  fortune,  York,  hadst  thou  been  regent  there, 
Might  happily  have  prov'd  far  worse  than  his. 

York.  What,  worse  than  naught  ?  nay,  then  a 
shame  take  all ! 

Som.  And,  in  the  number,  thee,  that  wishest 
shame  I 

Car,  My  lord  of  York,  try  what  your  fortune  is. 
The  uncivil  Kernes  of  Ireland  are  in  arms. 
And  temper  clay  with  blood  of  Englishmen  : 
To  Ireland  will  you  lead  a  band  of  men. 
Collected  choicely,  from  each  county  some. 
And  try  your  hap  against  the  Irishmen  ? 

York.  I  will,  my  lord,  so  please  his  majesty. 

Suf.  Why,  our  authority  is  his  consent ; 
And,  what  we  do  establish,  he  confirms : 
Then,  noble  York,  take  thou  this  task  in  hand. 

York.    I  am    content :    Provide  me  soldiers, 
lords, 
Whiles  I  take  order  for  mine  own  affairs. 

Stif.    A  charge,  lord  York,  that  I  will  see  pcr- 
form'd. 
But  now  return  we  to  the  false  duke  Humphrey. 

Car.  No  more  of  him  ;  for  I  will  deal  with  him 
That,  henceforth,  he  shall  trouble  us  no  more. 
And  so  break  off;  the  day  is  almost  spent : 
Lord  Suffolk,  you  and  I  must  talk  of  that  event. 

York.    My   lord    of   Suffolk,  within    fourteen 
days. 
At  Bristol  I  expect  my  soldiers ; 
For  there  I  '11  ship  them  all  for  Ireland. 

Suf.  I  '11  see  it  truly  done,  my  lord  of  York. 

\^Exeunt  all  but  York. 

York.    Now,  York,  or  never,  steel  thy  fearful 
thoughts. 
And  change  misdoubt  to  resolution  : 
Be  that  thou  hop'st  to  be ;  or  what  thou  art 
Resign  to  death,  it  is  not  worth  the  enjoying : 
Let  pale-fac'd  fear  keep  with  the  mean-born  man. 
And  find  no  harbour  in  a  royal  heait. 
Faster  than  spring-time  showers,  comes  thought 

on  thought; 
And  not  a  thought,  but  thinks  on  dignity. 
My  brain,  more  busy  than  the  labouring  spider, 

926 


J 


ACT  III. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


Weaves  tedious  snares  to  trap  mine  enemies. 
Well,  nobles,  well,  't  is  politicly  done, 
To  send  me  packing  with  an  host  of  men : 
I  fear  me,  you  but  warm  the  starved  snake, 
Who,  cherish'd  in  your  breasts,  will  sting  your 

hearts. 
*T  was  men  I  lack'd,  and  you  will  give  them  me : 
I  take  it  kindly ;  yet,  be  well  assur'd 
You  put  sharp  weapons  in  a  madman's  hands. 
Whiles  I  in  Ireland  march  a  mighty  band, 
T  will  stir  up  in  England  some  black  storm, 
Shall  blow  ten  thousand  souls  to  heaven,  or  hell : 
And  this  fell  tempest  shall  not  cease  to  rage 
Until  the  golden  circuit  on  my  head, 
Like  to  the  glorious  sun's  transparent  beams, 
Do  calm  the  fury  of  this  mad-bred  flaw. 
And,  for  a  minister  of  my  intent, 
I  have  seduc'd  a  head-strong  Kentishman, 
John  Cade  of  Ashford, 
To  make  commotion,  as  full  well  he  can, 
Under  the  title  of  John  Mortimer. 
In  Ireland  have  I  seen  this  stubborn  Cade 
Oppose  himself  against  a  troop  of  Kernes ; 
And   fought  so  long,   till   that  his  thighs  with 

darts 
Were  almost  like  a  sharp-quill'd  porcupine: 
And,  in  the  end  being  rescu'd,  I  have  seen  him 
Caper  upright  like  a  wild  Morisco," 
Shaking  the  bloody  darts,  as  he  his  bells. 
Full  often,  like  a  shag-hair'd  crafty  Kerne, 
Hath  he  conversed  with  the  enemy ; 
And  undiscover'd  come  to  me  again, 
And  given  me  notice  of  their  villanies. 
This  devil  here  shall  be  my  substitute; 
For  that  John  Mortimer,  which  now  is  dead, 
In  face,  in  gait,  in  speech,  he  doth  resemble : 
By  this  I  shall  perceive  the  commons'  mind, 
How  they  affect  the  house  and  claim  of  York. 
Say,  he  be  taken,  rack'd,  and  tortured ; 
I  know,  no  pain,  they  can  inflict  upon  him, 
Will  make  him  say — I  mov'd  him  to  those  arms, 
Say,  that  he  thrive,  (as  't  is  great  like  he  will,) 
Why,  then  from  Ireland  come  I  with  my  strength. 
And  reap  the  harvest  which  that  rascal  sow'd  : 
For,  Humphrey  being  dead,  as  he  shall  be, 
And  Henry  put  apart,  the  next  for  me.         [£Jxit. 

SCENE  II.— Bury.     A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  certain  Murderers,  hastily. 

Xst  Mur.  Run  to  m^^  lord  of  Suflralk  :  let  him 
know 
•2« 


We  have  despatch'd  the  duke,  as  he  commanded. 
Ind  Mur.  O,  that  it  were  to  do  ! — What  have 
we  done  ? 
Did'st  ever  hear  a  man  so  penitent  ? 

Enter  Suffolk. 

\st  Mur.  Here  comes  my  lord. 

Suf.  Now,  sirs,  have  you 

Despatch'd  this  thing  ? 

Tst  Mur.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  he 's  dead. 

Suf.  Why,  that 's  well  said.     Go,  get  you  to 
my  house ; 
I  will  reward  you  for  this  venturous  deed. 
The  king  and  all  the  peers  are  here  at  hand : — 
Have  you  laid  fair  the  bed  ?  are  all  things  well, 
According  as  I  gave  directions  ? 

\8t  Mur.  'T  is,  my  good  lord. 

Suf.  Away,  be  gone !  \Exeunt  Murderers. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Queen  Margaret,  Cardinal 
Beaufort,  Somerset,  Lords,  and  Others. 

K.  Hen.    Go,  call  our  uncle  to  our  presence 
straight ; 
Say,  we  intend  to  try  his  grace  to-day. 
If  he  be  guilty,  as  't  is  published. 

Suf.  I  '11  call  him  presently,  my  noble  lord. 

\Ex\t. 
K.  Hen.  Lords,  take  your  places ; — And,  I  pray 
you  all, 
Proceed  no  straiter  'gainst  our  uncle  Gloster, 
Than  from  true  evidence,  of  good  esteem, 
He  be  approv'd  in  practice  culpable. 

Q.  Mar,  God  forbid  any  malice  should  prevail, 
That  faultless  may  condemn  a  nobleman  1 
Pray  God,  may  acquit  him  of  suspicion  ! 

K.  Hen.  I  thank  thee,  Margaret ;  these  words 
content  me  much. — 

Re-enter  Suffolk. 

How  now  ?  why  look'st  thou  pale  ?  why  tremblest 

thou? 
Where  is  our  uncle  ?  what  is  the  matter,  Suff"olk  \ 
Suf.  Dead  in  his  bed,  my  lord ;  Gloster  is  dead. 
Q.  Mar.  Marry,  God  forefend ! 
Car.  God's  secret  judgment :  —I  did  dream  to- 
night, 
The  duke  was  dumb,  and  could  not  speak  a  word. 

[The  King  swoons. 
Q.  Mar.  How  fares  my  lord  ? — Help,  lords !  the 

king  is  dead. 
Som.  Rear  up  his  body;  wring  him  by  the 
nose.'* 


ACT   III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    11. 


Q.  Mar.   Run,  go,  help,  help  ! — 0,  Henry,  ope 

thine  eyes ! 
Suf.  He  doth  revive  again  ; — Madam,  be  pa- 
tient. 
£".  Hen.  O  heavenly  God ! 
Q.  Mar.  How  fares  my  gracious  lord  ? 
Suf.    Comfort,  my  sovereign  !  gracious  Henry, 

comfort ! 
K.  Hen.  What,  doth  my  lord  of  Suffolk  com- 
•     fort  me  ? 
Came  he  right  now  to  sing  a  raven's  note, 
Whose  dismal  tune  bereft  my  vital  powers  ; 
And  thinks  he,  that  the  chirping  of  a  wren, 
By  crying  comfort  from  a  hollow  breast. 
Can  chase  away  the  first-conceived  sound  ? 
Hide  not  thy  poison  with  such  sugar'd  words. 
Lay  not  thy  hands  on  me ;  forbear,  I  say ; 
Their  touch  affrights  me,  as  a  serpent's  sting. 
Thou  baleful  messenger,  out  of  my  sight ! 
Upon  thy  eye-balls  murderous  tyranny 
Sits  in  grim  majesty,  to  fright  the  world. 
Look  not  upon  me,  for  thine  eyes  are  wounding: — 
Yet  do  not  go  away  ; — Come,  basilisk. 
And  kill  the  innocent  gazer  with  thy  sight : 
For  in  the  shade  of  death  I  shall  find  joy  ; 
In  life,  but  double  death,  now  Gloster  's  dead, 
Q.  Mar.  Why  do  you  rate  my  lord  of  Suffolk 

thus? 
Although  the  duke  was  enemy  to  him. 
Yet  he,  most  christian-like,  laments  his  death  : 
And  for  myself, — foe  as  he  was  to  me, 
Might  liquid  tears,  or  heart-offending  groans. 
Or  blood-consuming  sighs  recal  his  life, 
I  would  be  blind  with  weeping,  sick  with  groans, 
Look  pale  as  primrose,  with  blood-drinking  sighs, 
And  all  to  have  the  noble  duke  alive. 
What  know  I  how  the  world  may  deem  of  me  ? 
For  it  is  known,  we  were  but -hollow  friends; 
It  may  be  judg'd,  I  made  the  duke  away : 
So    shall    my    name    with    slander's    tongue    be 

wounded. 
And  princes'  courts  be  fiU'd  with  my  reproach. 
This  get  I  by  his  death :  Ah  me,  unhappy ! 
To  be  a  queen,  and  crown'd  with  infamy ! 

K.  Hen.  Ah,  woe  is  me  for  Gloster,  wretched 

man! 
Q.  Mar.  Be  woe  for  me,  more  wretched  than 

he  is. 
What,  dost  thou  turn  away,  and  hide  thy  face  ? 
I  am  no  loathsome  leper,  look  on  me. 
What,  art  thou,  like  the  adder,  waxen  deaf? 
Be  poisonous  too,  and  kill  thy  forlorn  queen. 


Is  all  thy  comfort  shut  in  Gloster's  tomb? 
Why,  then  dame  Margaret  was  ne'er  thy  joy : 
Erect  his  statue  then,  and  worship  it. 
And  make  my  image  but  an  alehouse  sign. 
Was  I,  for  this,  nigh  wreck'd  upon  the  sea ; 
And  twice  by  awkward  wind  from  England's  bank 
Drove  back  again  unto  my  native  clime  ? 
What  boded  this,  but  well-forewarning  wind 
Did  seem  to  say, — Seek  not  a  scorpion's  nest, 
Nor  set  no  footing  on  this  unkind  shore  ? 
What  did  I  then,  but  curs'd  the  gentle  gusts. 
And  he  that  loos'd  them  from  their  brazen  caves; 
And  bid  them   blow  towards  England's  blessed 

shore. 
Or  turn  our  stern  upon  a  dreadful  rock  ? 
Yet  ^olus  would  not  be  a  murderer. 
But  left  that  hateful  office  unto  thee : 
The  pretty  vaulting  sea  refus'd  to  drown  me; 
Knowing,  that  thou  would'st  have  me  drown'd  on 

shore, 
With  tears  as  salt  as  sea  through  thy  unkindness  ' 
The  splitting  rocks  cow'rd  in  the  sinking  sands. 
And  would  not  dash  me  with  their  ragged  sides ; 
Because  thy  flinty  heart,  more  hard  than  they, 
Might  in  thy  palace  perish  Margaret. 
As  far  as  I  could  ken  thy  chalky  cliffs, 
When  from  the  shore  the  tempest  beat  us  back, 
I  stood  upon  the  hatches  in  the  storm  : 
And  when  the  dusky  sky  began  to  rob 
My  earnest-gaping  sight  of  thy  land's  view, 
I  took  a  costly  jewel  from  my  neck, — 
x\. heart  it  was,  bound  in  with  diamonds, — 
And  threw  it  towards  thy  land ;  the  sea  recciv'd 

it; 

And  so,  I  wish'd,  thy  body  might  my  heart : 
And  even  with  this,  I  lost  fair  England's  view. 
And  bid  mine  eyes  be  packing  with  my  heart : 
And  call'd  them  blind  and  dusky  spectacles. 
For  losing  ken  of  Albion's  wished  coast. 
How  often  have  I  tempted  Suffolk's  tongue 
(The  agent  of  thy  foul  inconstancy,) 
To  sit  and  witch  me,  as  Ascanius  did, 
When  he  to  madding  Dido,  would  unfold 
His  father's  acts,  commenc'd  in  burning  Troy  ? 
Am  I  not  witch'd  like  her  ?  or  thou  not  false  like 

him? 
Ah  me,  I  can  no  more !  Die,  Margaret ! 
For  Henry  weeps,  that  thou  dost  live  so  long. 

Noise  xoiihin.     Enter  Warwick  and  Salisbury, 
The  Commons  press  to  the  door. 

War.  It  is  reported,  mighty  sovereign, 

»27 


ACT  111. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE  IL 


riiMt  good  duke  Humphrey  traitorously  is  murder'd 
By  Suffolk  and  the  cardinal  Beaufort's  means. 
The  commons,  like  an  angry  hive  of  bees, 
That  want  theii  leader,  scatter  up  and  down, 
And  care  not  who  they  sting  in  his  revenge. 
Myself  have  calm'd  their  spleenful  mutiny. 
Until  they  hear  the  order  of  his  death. 

K.  Hen.  That  he  is  dead,  good  Warwick,  't  is 
too  true ; 
But  how  he  died,  God  knows,  not  Henry : 
Enter  his  chamber,  view  his  breathless  corpse, 
And  comment  then  upon  his  sudden  death. 

War.  That  I  shall  do,  my  liege : — Stay,  Salis- 
bury, 
With  the  rude  multitude,  till  I  return. 

[War.  goes  into  an  inner  Room,  and  Sal.  retires. 

K.  Hen.  0  thou  that  judgest  all  things,  stay 
my  thoughts ; 
My  thoughts,  that  labour  to  persuade  my  soul, 
Some  violent  hands  were  laid  on  Humphrey's  life ! 
If  my  suspect  be  false,  forgive  me,  God  ; 
For  judgment  only  doth  belong  to  thee  ! 
Fain  would  I  go  to  chase  his  paly  lips 
With  twenty  thousand  kisses,  and  to  drain 
Upon  his  face  an  ocean  of  salt  tears ; 
To  tell  my  love  unto  his  dumb  deaf  trunk, 
And  with  my  fingers  feel  his  hand  unfeeling. 
But  all  in  vain  are  these  mean  obsequies ; 
And,  to  survey  his  dead  and  earthy  image. 
What  were  it  but  to  make  my  sorrow  greater  ? 

The  folding  Doors  of  an  inner  Chamber  are  thrown 
open,  and  Gloster  is  discovered  dead  in  his  bed  : 
Warwick  and  others  standing  by  it. 

War.  Come  hither,  gracious  sovereign,  view 

this  body. 
K.  Hen.  That  is  to  see  how  deep  my  grave  is 
made ; 
For,  with  his  soul,  fled  all  my  worldly  solace ; 
For  seeing  him,  I  see  my  life  in  death. 

War.  As  surely  as  my  soul  intends  to  live 
With  that  dread  King  that  took  our  state  upon 

him 
To  free  us  from  his  Father's  wrathful  curse, 
r  do  believe  that  violent  hands  were  laid 
Upon  the  life  of  this  thrice-famed  duke. 

Suf  A  dreadful  oath,  sworn  with   a   solemn 
tongue ! 
What  instance  gives  lord  Warwick  for  bis  vow  ? 

War.  See,  how  the  blood  is  settled  in  his  face ! 
Oft  have  I  seen  a  timely-parted  ghost, 
Of  ashy  semblance,  meagre,  pale,  and  bloodless, 
928 


Being  all  descended  to  the  labouring  heart ; 
Who,  in  the  conflict  that  it  holds  with  death. 
Attracts  the  same  for  aidance  'gainst  the  enemy  ; 
Which  with  the  heart  there  cools  and  ne'er  re- 

turneth 
To  blush  and  beautify  the  cheek  again. 
But,  see,  his  face  is  black,  and  full  of  blood ; 
His  eye-balls  further  out  than  when  he  liv'd, 
Staring  full  ghastly  like  a  strangled  man  : 
His  hair  uprear'd,  his  nostrils  stretch'd  with  strug* 

gling; 
His  hands  abroad  display'd,  as  one  that  grasp'd 
And  tugg'd  for  life,  and  was  by  strength  subdu'd. 
Look  on  the  sheets,  his  hair,  you  see,  is  sticking; 
His    well-proportion'd    beard    made   rough    and 

rugged, 
Like  to  the  summer's  corn  by  tempest  lodg'd. 
It  cannot  be,  but  he  was  murder'd  here ; 
The  least  of  all  these  signs  were  probable. 

Suf.  Why,  Warwick,  who  should  do  the  duke 
to  death  ? 
Myself,  and  Beaufort,  had  him  in  protection  ; 
And  we,  I  hope,  sir,  are  no  murderers. 

War.  But  both  of  you  were  vow'd  duke  Hum- 
phrey's foes ; 
And  you,  forsooth,  had  the  good  duke  to  keep : 
'T  is  like,  you  would  not  feast  him  like  a  friend  ; 
And  't  is  well  seen  he  found  an  enemy. 

Q.  Mar.  Then  you,  belike,  suspect  these  noble- 
men 
As  guilty  of  duke  Humphrey's  timeless  death. 
War.  Who  finds  the  heifer  dead,  and  bleeding 
fresh. 
And  sees  fast  by  a  butcher  with  an  axe. 
But  will  suspect,  'twas  he  that  made  the  slaughter  ? 
Who  finds  the  partridge  in  the  puttock's  nest. 
But  may  imagine  how  the  bird  was  dead. 
Although  the  kite  soar  with  unbloodied  beak  ? 
Even  so  suspicious  is  this  tragedy. 

Q.  Mar.  Are  you  the  butcher,  Suff'olk ;  where 'a 
your  knife  ? 
Is  Beaufort  term'd  a  kite  ?  where  are  his  talons  ? 
Suf.   I   wear   no  knife,   to  slaughter  sleeping 
men ; 
But  here 's  a  vengeful  sword,  rusted  with  ease. 
That  shall  be  scoured  in  his  rancorous  heart. 
That  slanders  me  with  murder's  crimson  badge : — 
Say,  if  thou  dar'st,  proud  lord  of  Warwickshire, 
That  I  am  faulty  in  duke  Humphrey's  death. 

[Exeunt  Car,,  Som.,  and  Others. 
War.  What  dares  not  Warwick,  if  false  Suf- 
folk dare  him  ? 


KING  MEXRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE   n. 


Q.  Mar.  He  dares  not  calm  his  contumelious 
spirit, 
Nor  cease  to  be  an  arrogant  controller, 
Though  Suffolk  dare  him  twenty  thousand  times. 
Wa7:  Madam,  be  still ;  with  reverence  may  I 
say; 
For  every  word,  you  speak  in  his  behalf^ 
Is  slander  to  your  royal  dignity. 

Suf.  Blunt-witted  lord,  ignoble  in  demeanour  ! 
If  ever  lady  wrong'd  her  lord  so  much, 
Thy  mother  took  into  her  blameful  bed 
Some  stern  untutor'd  churl,  and  noble  stock 
Was  graft  with  crab-tree  slip  ;  whose  fruit  thou 

art. 
And  never  of  the  Nevils'  noble  race. 

War.  But  that  the  guilt  of  murder  bucklers 
thee. 
And  I  should  rob  the  deathsman  of  his  fee. 
Quitting  thee  thereby  of  ten  thousand  shames. 
And  that  my  sovereign's  presence  makes  me  mild, 
I  would,  false  murderous  coward,  on  thy  knee 
Make  thee  beg  pardon  for  thy  passed  speech. 
And  say — it  was  thy  mother  that  thou  meant'st. 
That  thou  thyself  wast  born  in  bastardy : 
And,  after  all  this  fearful  homage  done, 
Give  thee  thy  hire,  and  send  thy  soul  to  hell. 
Pernicious  bloodsucker  of  sleeping  men  ! 

Suf.  Thou  shalt  be  waking,  while  I  shed  thy 
blood, 
If  from  this  presence  thou  dar'st  go  with  me. 
War,  Away    even  now,  or  I  will   drag   thee 
.hence  : 
Unworthy  though  thou  art,  I  '11  cope  with  thee. 
And  do  some  service  to  duke  Humphrey's  ghost. 
[£Jxeunt  Suf.  and  War. 
K.  Hen.   What   stronger  breast-plate  than    a 
heart  untainted  ? 
Thrice  is  he  arm'd,  that  hath  his  quarrel  just ; 
And  he  but  naked,  though  lock'd  up  in  steel, 
Whose  conscience  with  injustice  is  corrupted. 

l^A  Noise  within. 
Q.  Mar.  What  noise  is  this  ? 

Re-enter  Suffolk  and  Warwick,  with  their 
Weapons  drawn. 

K.  Hen.  Why,  how  now,  lords  ?  your  wrathful 
weapons  drawn 
Here  in  our  presence  ?  dare  you  be  so  bold  ? — 
Why,  what  tumultuous  clamour  have  we  here  ? 
Suf.  The  traitorous  Warwick,  with  the  men  of 
Bury, 
Set  all  upon  me,  mighty  sovereign. 

117 


Noise  of  a  Crowd  within.     Re-enter  Salisbury. 

Sal.  Sirs,  stand  apart ;  *,he   king  shall  know 
your  mind. —  [^Speaking  to  those  within. 
Dread  lord,  the  commons  send  you  word  by  mc, 
Unless  false  Suffolk  straight  be  done  to  death. 
Or  banished  fair  England's  territories. 
They  will  by  violence  tear  him  from  your  palace, 
And  torture  him  with  grievous  ling'ring  death. 
They  say,  by  him  the  good  duke  Humphrey  died ; 
They  say,  in  him  they  fear  your  highness'  death; 
And  mere  instinct  of  love,  and  loyalty, — 
Free  from  a  stubborn  opposite  intent. 
As  being  thought  to  contradict  your  liking, — 
Makes  them  thus  forward  in  his  banishment. 
They  say,  in  care  of  your  most  royal  person, 
That,  if  your  highness  should  intend  to  sleep, 
And  charge — that  no  man  should  disturb  your  rest 
In  pain  of  your  dislike,  or  pain  of  death  ; 
Yet  notwithstanding  such  a  strait  edict, 
Were  there  a  serpent  seen,  with  forked  tongue, 
That  slily  glided  towards  your  majesty, 
It  were  but  necessary,  you  were  wak'd  ; 
Lest,  being  suffer'd  in  that  harmful  slumber, 
The  mortal  worm  might  make  the  sleep  eternal : 
And  therefore  do  they  cry,  though  you  forbid, 
That  they  will  guard  you,  whe'r  you  will,  or  no. 
From  such  fell  serpents  as  false  Suffolk  is  ; 
With  whose  envenom'd  and  fatal  sting. 
Your  loving  uncle,  twenty  times  his  worth. 
They  say,  is  shamefully  bereft  of  life. 

Commons.  [  Within^  An  answer  from  the  king, 
my  lord  of  Salisbury. 

Suf.  'T  is  like,  the  commons,  rude  unpolish  d 
hinds, 
Could  send  such  message  to  their  sovereign ; 
But  you,  my  lord,  were  glad  to  be  employ'd. 
To  show  how  quaint  an  orator  you  are  : 
But  all  the  honour  Salisbury  hath  won, 
Is — that  he  was  the  lord  ambassador, 
Sent  from  a  sort  of  tinkers  to  the  king. 

Commons.  \Withinl\  An  answer  from  the  king, 
or  we  '11  all  break  in. 

K.  Hen.  Go,  Salisbury,  and  tell  them  all  fi'ora  ni»», 
I  thank  them  for  their  tender  loving  care : 
And  had  I  not  been  'cited  so  by  them, 
Yet  did  I  purpose  as  they  do  entreat; 
For  sure,  my  thoughts  do  hourly  prophesy 
Mischance  unto  my  state  by  Suffolk's  meaoh. 
And  therefore, — by  His  majesty  I  swear. 
Whose  far  unworthy  deputy  I  am, — 
He  shall  not  breathe  infection  in  this  air 

929 


ACT    III. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


ecs>£  II. 


But  three  days  longer,  on  the  pain  of  death. 

[Uxit  Sal. 
Q.  Mar.  0  Henry,  let  me  plead  for  gentle  Suf- 
folk! 
IC.  Hen.  Ungentle  queen,  to  call  him  gentle 

Suffolk. 
No  more,  I  say ;  if  thou  dost  plead  for  him, 
Thou  wilt  but  add  increase  unto  my  wrath. 
Had  I  but  said,  I  would  have  kept  my  word  ; 
But,  when  I  swear,  it  is  irrevocable  : — 
If,  after  three  days'  space,  thou  here  be'st  found 
On  any  ground  that  I  am  ruler  of. 
The  world  shall  not  be  ransom  for  thy  life. — 
Come,  Warwick,  come,  good  Warwick,  go  with 

me; 
I  have  great  matters  to  impart  to  thee. 

[Exeunt  K.  Hen.,  War.,  Lords,  &c. 
Q.  Mar.  Mischance,  and  sorrow,  go  along  with 

you! 
Heart's  discontent,  and  sour  affliction. 
Be  playfellows  to  keep  you  company  ! 
There  's  two  of  you  ;  the  devil  make  a  third ! 
And  threefold  vengeance  tend  upon  your  steps ! 
Suf.  Cease,  gentle  queen,  these  execrations, 
And  let  thy  Suffolk  take  his  heavy  leave. 

Q.  Mar.  Fye,  coward  woman,  and  soft-hearted 

wretch  1 
Hast  thou  not  S2:»irit  to  curse  thine  enemies  ? 
Suf.  A  plague  upon  them  !  wlierefore  should  I 

curse  them  ? 
Would  curses  kill,  as  doth  the  mandrake's  groan,'* 
I  would  invent  as  bitter-searching  terms. 
As  eurst,  as  harsh,  and  horrible  to  hear, 
Deliver 'd  strongly  through  my  fixed  teeth, 
With  full  as  many  signs  of  deadly  hate. 
As  lean-fae'd  Envy  in  her  loathsome  cave  : 
My  tongue  should  stumble  in  mine  earnest  words : 
Mine  eyes  should  sparkle  like  the  beaten  flint; 
My  hair  be  fix'd  on  end,  as  one  distract ; 
Ay,  every  joint  should  seem  to  curse  and  ban  : 
And  even  now  my  burden 'd  heart  would  break, 
Should  I  not  curse  them.    Poison  be  their  drink ! 
Gall,  worse  than  gall,  the  daintiest  that  they  taste ! 
Their  sweetest  shade,  a  grove  of  cypress  trees  ! 
Their  chiefest  prospect,  murdering  basilisks ! 
Their  softest  touch,  as  smart  as  lizards'  stings  1 
Their  music,  frightful  as  the  serpent's  hiss  ; 
And  boding  screech-owls  make  the  concert  full ! 

All  the  foul  terrors  in  dark-seated  hell 

Q.  Mar.  Enough,   sweet   Suffolk;    thou   tor- 

ment'st  thyself; 
And  these  dread  curses — like  the  sun  'gainst  glass, 

980 


Or  like  an  overcharged  gun, — recoil, — 
And  turn  thq  force  of  them  upon  thyself, 

Suf.  You  bade  me  ban,  and  will  you  bid  me 

leave  ? 
Now,  by  the  ground  that  I  am  banish'd  from, 
Well  could  I  curse  away  a  winter's  night. 
Though  standing  naked  on  a  mountain  top. 
Where  biting  cold  would  never  let  grass  grow, 
And  think  it  but  a  minute  spent  in  sport. 

Q.  Mar.  O,  let  me  entreat  thee,  cease.     Gi-rj 

me  thy  hand, 
That  I  may  dew  it  with  my  mournful  tears ; 
Nor  let  the  rain  of  heaven  wet  this  place. 
To  wash  away  my  w^oeful  monuments. 
0,  could  this  kiss  be  printed  in  thy  hand , 

[Kisses  his  hand, 
That  thou  might'st  think  upon  these  by  the  seal, 
Through  whom  a  thousand  sighs  are  breath'd  foi 

thee! 
So,  get  thee  gone,  that  I  may  know  my  grief; 
'T  is  but  surmis'd  whilst  thou  art  standing  by. 
As  one  that  surfeits  thinking  on  a  want. 
I  will  repeal  thee,  or,  be  well  assur'd, 
Adventure  to  be  banished  myself: 
And  banished  I  am,  if  but  from  thee. 
Go,  speak  not  to  me ;  even  now  be  gone. — 
0,  go  not  yet ! — Even  thus  two  friends  condemn'd 
Embrace,  and  kiss,  and  take  ten  thousand  leaves, 
Loather  a  hundred  times  to  part  than  die. 
Yet  now  farewell  ;  and  farewell  life  with  thee ! 

Suf.  Thus  is  poor  Suffolk  ten  times  banished. 
Once  by  the  king,  and  three  times  thrice  by  thee. 
'T  is  not  the  land  I  care  for,  wert  thou  hence ; 
A  wilderness  is  populous  enough. 
So  Suffolk  had  thy  heavenly  company : 
For  where  thou  art,  there  is  the  world  itself, 
With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world  ; 
And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation. 
I  can  no  more : — Live  thou  to  joy  thy  life ; 
Myself  to  joy  in  nought,  but  that  thou  liv'st. 

Enter  Vaux. 

Q.  Mar.  Whither  goes  Vaux  so  fast  ?  what  news, 
I  pr'ythee  ? 

Vaux.  To  signify  unto  his  majesty, 
That  cardinal  Beaufort  is  at  point  of  death  : 
For  suddenly  a  grievous  sickness  took  him. 
That  makes  him  gasp,  and  stare,  and  catch  the  air. 
Blaspheming  God,  and  cursing  men  on  earth. 
Sometime,  he  talks  as  if  duke  Humphrey's  gl^ust 
Were  by  his  side ;  sometime,  he  calls  the  kii;g, 
And  whispers  to  his  pillow,  as  to  him. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


8CBNE   m. 


The  secrets  of  his  overcharged  soul : 
And  I  am  sent  to  tell  his  majesty, 
That  even  now  he  cries  aloud  for  him. 

Q.  Mar.  Go,  tell  this  heavy  message  to  the 

king.  [^Bxit  Vaux. 

Ah !   me  !   what  is  this  world  ?    what  news  are 

these  ? 
But  wherefore  grieve  I  at  an  hour's  poor  loss, 
Omitting  Suffolk's  exile,  my  soul's  treasure? 
Why  only,  Suffolk,  mourn  I  not  for  thee. 
And  with  the  southern  clouds  contend  in  tears  ; 
Theirs  for  the  earth's  increase,  mine  for  my  sor- 
rows ? 
Now,  get  thee  hence :  The  king,  thou  know'st,  is 

coming ; 
If  thou  be  found  by  me,  thou  art  but  dead. 

Suf.  If  I  depart  from  thee,  I  cannot  live : 
And  in  thy  sight  to  die,  what  were  it  else, 
But  like  a  pleasant  slumber  in  thy  lap  ? 
Here  could  I  breathe  my  soul  into  the  air. 
As  mild  and  gentle  as  the  cradle-babe, 
Dying  with  mother's  dug  between  its  lips: 
Where,  from  thy  sight,  I  should  be  raging  mad, 
And  cry  out  for  thee  to  close  up  mine  eyes, 
To  have  thee  with  thy  lips  to  stop  my  mouth  ; 
So  should'st  thou  either  turn  my  flying  soul, 
Or  I  should  breathe  it  so  into  thy  body, 
And  then  it  liv'd  in  sweet  Elysium. 
To  die  by  thee,  were  but  to  die  in  jest ; 
From  thee  to  die,  were  torture  more  than  death  : 
O,  let  me  stay,  befall  what  may  befall. 

Q.  Mar.  Away  !   though  parting  be  a  fretful 
corrosive, 
It  is  applied  to  a  deathful  wound. 
To  France,  sweet  Suffolk :    Let   me   hear  from 

thee  ; 
For  wheresoe'er  thou  art  in  this  world's  globe, 
I  '11  have  an  Iris  that  shall  find  thee  out.*" 

Suf.  I  go. 

Q.  Mar.  And  take  my  heart  with  thee. 

Suf.  A  jewel,  lock'd  into  the  woeful'st  cask 
That  ever  did  contain  a  thing  of  worth. 
Even  as  a  splitted  bark,  so  sunder  we ; 
This  way  fall  I  to  d^ath. 

Q.  Mar.  This  way  for  me. 

[JExeunty  severally. 


SCENE  III— London.     Cardinal  Beaufort's 
Bed-chamber. 

Enter  King  Henrt,  Salisbury,  Warwick,  a!nd 
Others.  The  Cardinal  in  bed ;  Attendants 
with  him. 

K.  Hen.  How  fares  my  lord  ?  speak,  Beaufort, 

to  thy  sovereign. 
Car.  If  thou  be'st  death,  I  '11  give  thee  Eng- 
land's treasure," 
Enough  to  purchase  such  another  island, 
So  thou  wilt  let  me  live,  and  feel  no  pain. 

K.  Hen.  Ah,  what  a  sign  it  is  of  evil  life, 
When  death's  approach  is  seen  so  terrible ! 

War.  Beaufort,  it  is  thy  sovereign  speaks  to 

thee. 
Car.  Bring  me  unto  my  trial  when  you  will. 
Died  he  not  in  his  bed  ?  where  should  he  die  ? 
Can  I  make  men  live,  whe'r  they  will  or  no  ? 

0  !  torture  me  no  more,  I  will  confess. — 
Alive  again  ?  then  show  me  where  he  is  ; 

1  '11  give  a  thousand  pound  to  look  upon  him. — 
He  hath  no  eyes,  the  dust  hath  blinded  them. — 
Comb  down  his  hair  ;  look  !  look  !  it  stands  up- 
right, 

Like  lime-twigs  set  to  catch  my  winged  soul ! — 
Give  me  some  drink ;  and  bid  the  apothecary 
Bring  the  strong  poison  that  I  bought  of  him. 

K.  Hen.  O  thou  eternal  Mover  of  the  heavens, 
Look  with  a  gentle  eye  upon  this  wretch ! 
O,  beat  away  the  busy  meddling  fiend, 
That  lays  strong  siege  unto  this  wretch's  soul, 
And  from  his  bosom  purge  this  black  despair ! 

War.  See,  how  the  pangs  of  death  do  make  him 
grin. 

Sal.  Disturb  him  not,  let  him  pass  peaceably. 

K.  Hen.  Peace  to  his  soul,  if  God's  good  plea- 
sure be  ! 
Lord  cardinal,  if  thou  think'st  on  heaven's  bliss, 
Hold  up  thy  hand,  make  signal  of  thy  hope. — 
He  dies,  and  makes  no  sign:  0  God,  forgive  him  ! 

War.  So  bad  a  death  argues  a  monstrous  iife. 

K.  Hen.  Forbear  to  judge,  for  we  are  sinnei-s 

all.— 

Close  up  his  eyes,  and  draw  the  curtains  close ; 

And  let  us  all  to  meditation.  \Exeunt 

931 


ACT   IV. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SOSAS    I. 


ACT    lY. 


SCENE  I.— Kent.     The  Sea-shore  near  Dover. 

Wiring  heard  at  Sea.  Then  enter  from  a  Boat,  a 
Captain,  a  Master,  a  Master's-Mate,  Walter 
Whitmore,  and  Others ;  with  them  Suffolk, 
and  other  Gentlemen,  prisoners. 

Cap.  Tlie  gaudy,  blabbing,  and  remorseful  day 
\&  crept  into  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ; 
And  now  loud-howling  wolves  arouse  the  jades 
That  drag  the  tragic  melancholy  night ; 
Who  with  their  drowsy,  slow,  and  flagging  wings 
Clip  dead  men's  graves,  and  from  their  misty  jaws 
Breathe  foul  contagious  darkness  in  the  air. 
Therefore,  bring  forth  the  soldiers  of  our  prize  ; 
For,  whilst  our  pinnace  anchors  in  the  Downs, 
Here  shall  they  make  their  ransom  on  the  sand, 
Or  with  their  blood  stain  this  discolour'd  shore. — 
Master,  this  prisoner  freely  give  I  thee ; — 
And  thou  that  art  his  mate,  make  boot  of  this  ; — 
The  other,  [Pointing  to  Suf.,]  Walter  Whitmore, 
is  thy  share. 
1st  Gent.  What  is  my  ransom,  master  ?  let  me 

know. 
Mast.  A  thousand  crowns,  or  else  lay  down  your 

head. 
Afate.  And  so  much  shall  you  give,  or  off  goes 

yours. 
Cap.  What,  think  you  much  to  pay  two  thou- 
sand crowns, 
And  bear  the  name  and  port  of  gentlemen  ? — 
Cut  both  the  villains'  throats  ;  for  die  you  shall ; 
Can  lives  of  those  which  we  have  lost  in  fight, 
Be  counterpois'd  with  such  a  petty  sum  ? 

1st  Gent.  I  '11  give  it,  sir ;  and  therefore  spare 

my  life. 
2nd  Gent.  And  so  will  I,  and  wnte  home  for  it 

straight. 
JVhit.    I  lost  mine   eye  in  laying  the  prize 
aboard. 
And  therefore,  to  revenge  it,  shalt  thou  die ; 

[To  Suf. 
And  so  should  these,  if  I  might  have  my  will. 
Cap.  Be  not  so  rash ;  take  ransom,  let  him  live. 
Suf.  Look  on  my  George,  I  am  a  gentleman  ; 
Rate  me  at  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  be  paid. 

«3a 


WTiit.    And  so  am  I ;  my  name  is — ^Waltei 
Whitmore. 
How  now  ?  why  start'st  thou  ?  what,  doth  death 
afi'right  ? 
Suf.  Thy  name  aflfrights  me,  in  whose  sound  is 
death. 
A  cunning  man  did  calculate  my  birth. 
And  told  me  that  by  "  Water"  I  should  die  : 
Yet  let  not  this  make  thee  be  bloody  minded ; 
Thy  name  is — "  Gualtier,"  being  rightly  sounded. 
Whit.  "  Gualtier,"  or  "  Walter,"  which  it  is,  I 
care  not ; 
Ne'er  yet  did  base  dishonour  blur  our  name. 
But  with  our  sword  we  wip'd  away  the  blot ; 
Therefore,  when  merchant-like  I  sell  revenge. 
Broke  be  my  sword,  my  arms  torn  and  defac'd. 
And  I  proclaim'd  a  coward  through  the  world  ! 

[Lags  hold  on  Suf. 
Suf.    Stay,  Whitmore  ;   for  thy  prisoner  is  a 
prince, 
The  duke  of  Suffolk,  William  de  la  Pole. 

Whit.  The  duke  of  Suffolk,  muffled  up  in  rags ! 
Suf.    Ay,  but  these  rags  are  no  part  of  the 
duke ; 
Jove  sometime  went  disguis'd.  And  why  not  I  ? 
Cap.  But  Jove  was  never  slain,  as  thou  shalt  be. 
Suf.  Obscure  and  lowly  swain,  king  Henry's 
blood, 
The  honourable  blood  of  Lancaster, 
Must  not  be  shed  by  such  a  jaded  groom. 
Hast  thou  not  kiss'd   thy  hand,   and  held  my 

stirrup  ? 
Bare-headed  plodded  by  my  foot-cloth  mule. 
And  thought  thee  happy  when  I  shook  my  head  1 
How  often  hast  thou  waited  at  my  cup. 
Fed  from  my  trencher,  kneel'd  down  at  the  board, 
When  I  have  feasted  with  queen  Margaret  ? 
Remember  it,  and  let  it  make  thee  crest-fall'n ; 
Ay,  and  allay  this  thy  abortive  pride : 
How  in  our  voiding  lobby  hast  thou  stood, 
And  duly  waited  for  ray  coming  forth  ? 
This  hand  of  mine  hath  writ  in  thy  behalf 
And  therefore  shall  it  charm  thy  riotous  tongue, 
Whit.  Speak,  captain,  shall  I  stab  the  forlorn 
swain  i  | 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


Cap.  First  let  my  words  stab  him,  as  he  hath  me. 
Suf.  Base  slave  !  thy  words  are  blunt,  and  so 

art  thou. 
Cap.  Convey  him  hence,  and  on  our  long-boat's 

side 
Strike  off  his  head. 

Suf.  Thou  dar'st  not  for  thy  own. 

Ca'p.  Yes,  Poole. 
Suf.  Poole  ? 

Cap.  Poole?  Sir  Poole?  lord? 

Ay,  kennel,  puddle,  sink ;  whose  filth  and  dirt 
Troubles  the  silver  spring  where  England  drinks. 
Now  will  I  dam  up  this  thy  yawning  mouth. 
For  swallowing  the  treasure  of  the  realm  : 
Thy  lips,  that  kiss'd  the  queen,  shall  sweep  the 

ground ; 
And  thou,  that  smil'dst  at  good  duke  Humphrey's 

death. 
Against  the  senseless  winds  shalt  grin  in  vain, 
Who,  in  contempt,  shall  hiss  at  thee  again  : 
And  wedded  be  thou  to  the  hags  of  hell. 
For  daring  to  affy*^  a  mighty  lord 
Unto  the  daughter  of  a  worthless  king. 
Having  neither  subject,  wealth,  nor  diadem. 
By  devilish  policy  art  thou  grown  great. 
And,  like  ambitious  Sylla,  overgorg'd 
With  gobbets  of  thy  mother's  bleeding  heart. 
By  thee,  Anjou  and  Maine  were  sold  to  France : 
The  false  revolting  Normans,  through  thee. 
Disdain  to  call  us  lord  ;  and  Picardy 
Hath  slain  their  governors,  surpris'd  our  forts. 
And  sent  the  ragged  soldiers  wounded  home. 
The  princely  Warwick,  and  the  Nevils  all, — 
Whose    dreadfu'    swords   were   never   drawn   in 

vain, — 
As  hating  thee,  are  rising  up  in  arms : 
And  now  the  house  of  York — thrust  from   the 

crown, 
By  shameful  murder  of  a  guiltless  king, 
And  lofty  proud  encroaching  tyranny, — 
Burns  with  revenging  fire  ;  whose  hopeful  colours 
Advance  our  half-fac'd  sun,  striving  to  shine. 
Under  the  which  is  writ — Invitis  nubibus. 
The  commons  here  in  Kent  are  up  in  arms  : 
And,  to  conclude,  reproach,  and  beggary. 
Is  crept  into  the  palace  of  our  king. 
And  all  by  thee  : — Away  !  convey  him  hence. 
Suf.    O   that  I  were   a  god,   to  shoot  forth 

thunder 
Upon  these  paltry,  servile,  abject  drudges! 
Small  things  make  base  men  proud :  this  villain 

here, 


Being  captain  of  a  pinnace,  threatens  more 
Than  Bargulus  the  strong  Illyrian  pirate. 
Drones  suck  not  eagles'  blood,  but  rob  bee-hives. 
It  is  impossible,  that  I  should  die 
By  such  a  lowly  vassal  as  thyself. 
Thy  words  move  rage,  and  not  remorse,  in  me : 
I  go  of  message  from  the  queen  to  France ; 
I  charge  thee,  waft  me  safely  cross  the  channel. 

Cap.  Walter, 

Whit.  Come,  Suffolk,  I  must  waft  thee  to  thy 
death. 

Suf   Gelidus  timor  occupat  artuts : — 't  is  thee 
I  fear. 

WTiit.  Thou  shalt  have  cause  to  fear,  before  I 
leave  thee. 
What,  are  ye  daunted  now  ?  now  will  ye  stoop  ? 

\st  Cent.  My  gracious  lord,  entreat  him,  speak 
him  fair. 

Suf.    Suffolk's  imperial   tongue  is  stern   and 
rough, 
Us'd  to  command,  untaught  to  plead  for  favour. 
Far  be  it,  we  should  honour  such  as  these 
With  humble  suit :  no,  rather  let  my  head 
Stoop  to  the  block,  than  these  knees  bow  to  any; 
Save  to  the  God  of  heaven,  and  to  my  king  ; 
And  sooner  dance  upon  a  bloody  pole. 
Than  stand  uncover'd  to  the  vulgar  groom. 
True  nobility  is  exempt  from  fear : — 
More  can  I  bear,  than  you  dare  execute. 

Cap.  Hale  him  away,  and  let  him  talk  no  more. 

Suf.  Come,  soldiers,  show  what  cruelty  ye  can, 
That  this  my  death  may  never  be  forgot ! — 
Great  men  oft  die  by  vile  bezonians : 
A  Roman  sworder  and  banditto  slave, 
Murder'd  sweet  Tully  ;  Brutus'  bastard  hand 
Stabb'd  Julius  Caesar ;  savage  islanders, 
Pompey  the  Great :  and  Suffolk  dies  by  pirates. 
[Exit  Suf.  with  Whit,  and  Others 

Cap.  And  as  for  these  whose  ransom  we  have 
set. 
It  is  our  pleasure,  one  of  them  depart : — 
Therefore  come  you  with  us,  and  let  him  go. 

[jExeunt  all  but  the  1st  Gent. 

He-enter  Whitmore,  with  Suffolk's  Body. 

Whit.  There  let  his  head  and  lifeless  body  lie, 
Until  the  queen  his  mistress  bury  it.  [JSxii 

1st  Gent.  0  barbarous  and  bloody  spectacle ! 
His  body  will  I  bear  unto  the  king : 
If  he  revenge  it  not,  yet  will  his  friends  ; 
So  will  the  queen,  that  living  held  him  dear. 

[JSxit,  with  the  Body 

933 


ACT    IV. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCBMK    II. 


SCENE  II.— Blackheatb. 

Enter  George  Bevis  and  John  Holland. 

Geo.  Come,  and  get  thee  a  sword,  though  made 
of  a  lath  ;  they  have  been  up  these  two  days, 

John.  They  have  the  more  need  to  sleep  now 
then. 

Geo.  I  tell  thee,  Jack  Cade  the  clothier  means 
to  dress  the  commonwealth,  and  turn  it,  and  set 
a  new  nap  upon  it. 

John.  So  he  had  need,  for 't  is  threadbare.  Well, 
I  say,  it  was  never  merry  world  in  England,  since 
gentlemen  came  up. 

Geo.  0  miserable  age !  Virtue  is  not  regarded 
in  handycrafts-meu, 

John.  The  nobility  think  scorn  to  go  in  leather 
aprons. 

Geo.  Nay  more,  the  king's  council  are  no  good 
workmen. 

John.  True  :  And  yet  it  is  said, — Labour  in  thy 
vocation  :  which  is  as  much  to  say,  as, — let  the 
magistrates  be  labouring  men ;  and  therefore 
should  we  be  magistrates. 

Geo.  Thou  hast  hit  it :  for  there  's  no  better 
sign  of  a  brave  mind,  than  a  hard  hand. 

John.  I  see  them  !  I  see  them  !  There  's  Best's 
son,  the  tanner  of  Wingham  : 

Geo.  He  shall  have  the  skins  of  our  enemies,  to 
make  dog's  leather  of. 

John.  And  Dick  the  butcher, 

Geo.  Then  is  sin  struck  down  like  an  ox,  and 
iniquity's  throat  cut  like  a  calf, 

John.  And  Smith  the  weaver : 

Geo.  Argo,  their  thread  of  life  is  spun. 

John.  Come,  come,  let  's  fall  in  with  them. 

Drum.     Enter  Cade,  Dick  the  Butcher,  Smith 
the  Weaver,  and  Others  in  great  number. 

Cade.  We  John  Cade,  so  termed  of  our  sup- 
posed father, 

Dick.  Or  rather,  of  stealing  a  cade  of  herrings. 

[Aside. 
Cade.  —  for  our  enemies  shall  fall  before  us, 
inspired  with  the  spirit  of  putting  down  kings  and 
princes, — Command  silence. 
Dick.  Silence  1 

Cade.  My  father  was  a  Mortimer, — 
Dick.  He  was  an  honest  man,  and  a  good  brick- 
ayer.  [Aside. 

Cade.  My  mother  a  Plantagenet, — 
Dick.  I  knew  her  well,  she  was  a  midwife. 

[Aside. 
«84 


Cade.  My  wife  descended  of  the  Lacies, — 

Dick.  She  was,  indeed,  a  pedlar's  daughter,  and 
sold  many  laces.  [Aside. 

Smith.  But,  now  of  late,  not  able  to  travel  with 
her  furred  pack,  she  washes  bucks  here  at  home. 

[Aside. 

Cade.  Therefore  am  I  of  an  honourable  house. 

Dick.  Ay,  by  my  faith,  the  field  is  honourable ; 
and  there  was  he  born,  under  a  hedge ;  for  his 
father  had  never  a  house,  but  the  cage.       [Aside. 

Cade.  Valiant  I  am. 

Smith.   'A  must  needs  ;  for  beggary  is  valiant 

[Aside. 

Cade.  I  am  able  to  endure  much. 

Dick.  No  question  of  that ;  for  I  have  seen  hira 
whipped  three  market  days  together.  [Aside. 

Cade.  I  fear  neither  sword  nor  fire. 

Smith.  He  need  not  fear  the  sword,  for  his  coat 
is  of  proof.  [Aside. 

Dick.  But,  methinks,  he  should  stand  in  fear  of 
fire,  being  burnt  i'  the  hand  for  stealing  of  sheep, 

[Aside. 

Cade.  Be  brave  then  ;  for  your  captain  is  brave, 
and  vows  reformation.  There  shall  be,  in  Eng- 
land, seven  half-penny  loaves  sold  for  a  penny  : 
the  three-hooped  pot  shall  have  ten  hoops ;  and  I 
will  make  it  felony,  to  drink  small  beer :  all  the 
realm  shall  be  in  common,  and  in  Cheapside  shall 
my  palfrey  go  to  grass.  And,  when  I  am  king, 
(as  king  I  will  be) 

All.  God  save  your  majesty  ! 

Cade.  I  thank  you,  good  people  : — there  shall 
be  no  money ;  all  shall  eat  and  drink  on  my 
score ;  and  I  will  apparel  them  all  in  one  livery, 
that  they  may  agree  like  brothers,  and  worship 
me  their  lord. 

Dick.  The  first  thing  we  do,  let  's  kill  all  the 
lawyers. 

Cade.  Nay,  that  I  mean  to  do.  Is  not  this  a 
lamentable  thing,  that  of  the  skin  of  an  innocent 
lamb  should  be  made  parchment?  that  parchment, 
being  scribbled  o'er,  should  undo  a  man  ?  Some 
say,  the  bee  stings  :  but  I  say,  't  is  the  bee's  wax, 
for  I  did  but  seal  once  to  a  thing,  and  I  was  nevei 
mine  own  man  since.     How  now  ?  who  's  there  ? 

Enter  some,  bringing  in  the  Clerk  of  Chatham. 

Smith.  The  clerk  of  Chatham :  he  can  write 
and  read,  and  cast  accompt. 
Cade.  O  monstrous  I 

Smith.  We  took  him  setting  of  boys'  copies. 
Cade.  Here  's  a  villain  1 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE   n. 


Smith.  H  'as  a  book  lu  his  pocket,  with  red  let- 
ters in  't. 

Cade.  Nay,  then  he  is  a  conjurer. 

Dick.  Nay,  he  can  make  obligations,"  and  write 
court-hand. 

Cade.  I  am  sorry  for  't :  the  man  is  a  proper 
man,  on  mine  honour;  unless  I  find  him  guilty, 
he  shall  not  die, — Come  hither,  sirrah,  I  must  ex- 
amine thee  :  What  is  thy  name  ? 

Clerk.  Emmanuel. 

Dick.  They  use  to  write  it  on  the  top  of  letters ; 
— 'T  will  go  hard  with  you. 

Cade.  Let  me  alone  :  Dost  thou  use  to  write  thy 
name  ?  or  hast  thou  a  mark  to  thyself,  like  an 
honest  plain-deahng  man  ? 

Clerk.  Sir,  I  thank  God,  I  have  been  so  well 
brought  up,  that  I  can  write  my  name. 

All.  He  hath  confessed  :  away  with  him ;  he 's 
a  villain,  and  a  traitor. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  I  say  :  hang  him  with 
bis  pen  and  inkhorn  about  his  neck. 

[Exeunt  some  with  the  Clerk. 

Enter  Michael. 

Mich.  Where  's  our  general  ? 

Cade.  Here  I  am,  thou  particular  fellow. 

Mich.  Fly,  fly,  fly  !  sir  Humphrey  Stafford  and 
his  brother  are  hard  by,  with  the  king's  forces. 

Cade.  Stand,  villain,  stand,  or  I  '11  fell  thee 
down :  He  shall  be  encountered  with  a  man  as 
good  as  himself :  He  is  but  a  knight,  is  'a  ? 

Mich.  No. 

Cade.  To  equal  him,  I  will  make  myself  a  knight 
presently:  Rise  up  sir  John  Mortimer.  Now  have 
at  him. 

Enter  Sir  Humphrey  Stafford,  and  William 
his  Brother,  with  Drum  and  Forces. 

Staf.  RebeUious  hinds,  the  filth  and  scum  of 
Kent, 
Mark'd  for  the  gallows, — lay  your  weapons  down, 
Home  to  your  cottages,  forsake  this  groom ; — 
The  king  is  merciful,  if  you  revolt. 

W.  Staf.  But  angry,  wrathful,  and  inclin'd  to 
blood. 
If  you  go  forward  :  therefore  yield,  or  die. 

Cade.  As  for  these  silken-coated  slaves,- 1  pass 
not;" 
It  is  to  you,  gooa  people,  that  I  speak. 
O'er  whom,  in  time  to  come,  I  hope  to  reign ; 
For  I  am  rightful  heir  unto  the  crown. 
Staf.  Villain,  thy  father  was  a  plasterer ; 


And  thou  thyself,  a  shearman,  Art  thou  not  ? 

Cade.  And  Adam  was  a  gardener. 

W.  Staf.  And  what  of  that  ? 

Cade.  Marry,  this  : — Edmund  Mortimer,  earl  of 
March, 
Married  the  duke  of  Clarence'  daughter :  Did  he 
not? 

Staf.  Ay,  sir. 

Cade.  By  her,  he  had  two  children  at  one  birth. 

W.  Staf  That 's  false. 

Cade.  Ay,  there  's  the  question  ;  but,  I  say,  't  is 
true: 
The  elder  of  them,  being  put  to  nurse. 
Was  by  a  beggar-woman  stol'n  away ; 
And  ignorant  of  his  birth  and  parentage. 
Became  a  bricklayer,  when  he  came  to  age : 
His  son  am  I ;  deny  it,  if  you  can. 

Dick.  Nay,  't  is  too  true  ;  therefore  he  shall  be 
king. 

Smith.  Sir,  he  made  a  chimney  in  ray  father's 
house,  and  the  bricks  are  alive  at  this  day  to  testify 
it ;  therefore,  deny  it  not. 

Staf.  And  will  you  credit  this  base  drudge's 
words. 
That  speaks  he  knows  not  what  ? 

All.  Ay,  marry,  will  we ;  therefore  get  ye  gone 

W.  Staf.  Jack  Cade,  the  duke  of  York  hath 
taught  you  this. 

Cade.  He  lies,  for  I  invented  it  myself  \Aside!\ 
Go  to,  sirrah,  Tell  the  king  from  me,  that — for  his 
father's  sake,  Henry  the  Fifth,  in  whose  time  boys 
went  to  span-counter  for  French  crowns, — I  am 
content  he  shall  reign  ;  but  I  '11  be  protector  ovei 
him. 

Dick.  And,  furthermore,  we  '11  have  the  lord 
Say's  head,  for  selling  the  dukedom  of  Maine. 

Cade.  And  good  reason  ;  for  thereby  is  Eng- 
land maimed,  and  fain  to  go  with  a  staft",  but 
that  my  puissance  holds  it  up.  Fellow  kings,  I 
tell  you,  that  that  lord  Say  hath  gelded  the  com- 
monwealth, and  made  it  an  eunuch  :  and  more 
than  that,  he  can  speak  French,  and  therefore  he 
is  a  traitor. 

Staf.  0  gross  and  miserable  ignorance  ! 

Cade.  Nay,  answer,  if  you  can  :  The  Frenchmen 
are  our  enemies  :  go  to  then,  I  ask  but  this :  Can 
he,  that  speaks  with  the  tongue  of  an  enemy,  be  a 
good  counsellor,  or  no  ? 

All.  No,  no  ;  and  therefore  we  '11  have  his  head. 

W.  Staf.  Well,  seeing  gentle  words  will  not 
prevail. 
Assail  them  with  the  array  of  the  king. 

935 


ACT   IT. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    la-  IV. 


Staf.    Herald,   away :  aud,   throughout   every 
town, 
Proclaim  them  traitors  that  are  up  with  Cade  ; 
That  those,  which  fly  before  the  battle  ends, 
May,  even  in  their  wives'  and  children's  sight, 
Be  hang'd  up  for  example  at  their  doors: — 
And  you,  that  be  the  king's  friends,  follow  me. 

[^Exeunt  the  Two  Staffords  and  Forces. 
Cade.  And  you,  that  love  the  commons,  follow 
me. — 
Now  show  yourselves  men,  't  is  for  liberty. 
We  will  not  leave  one  lord,  one  gentleman  : 
Spare  none,  but  such  as  go  in  clouted  shoon ; 
For  they  are  thrifty  honest  men,  and  such 
As  would  (but  that  they  dare  not,)  take  our  parts. 
Dick.  They  are  all  in  order,  and  march  toward  us. 
Cade.  But  then  are  we  in  order,  when  we  are 
most  out  of  order.     Come,  march  forward. 

l^JExeunt. 

SCENE  111.— Another  Fart  0/ Blackheath. 

Alarums.     The  Two  Farties  enter,  and  fight,  and 
both  the  Staffords  are  slain. 

Cade.  Where  's  Dick,  the  butcher  of  Ashford  ? 

Dick.  Here,  sir. 

Cade.  They  fell  before  thee  like  sheep  and  oxen, 
and  thou  behavedst  thyself  as  if  thou  hadst  been 
in  thine  own  slaughter-house :  therefore  thus  will 
I  reward  thee, — The  Lent  shall  be  as  long  again 
as  it  is ;  and  thou  shalt  have  a  licence  to  kill  for 
a  hundred  lacking  one.** 

Dick.  I  desire  no  more. 

Cade.  And,  to  speak  truth,  thou  deservest  no 
less.  This  monument  of  the  victory  will  I  bear  ;"* 
and  the  bodies  shall  be  dragged  at  my  horse'  heels, 
till  I  do  come  to  London,  where  we  will  have  the 
mayor's  sword  borne  before  us. 

Dick.  If  we  mean  to  thrive  and  do  good,  break 
open  the  gaols,  and  let  out  the  prisoners. 

Cade.  Fear  not  that,  I  warrant  thee.  Come, 
let 's  march  towards  London.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Falace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  reading  a  Supplication;  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham  and  Lord  Say  with  him : 
at  a  distance,  Queen  Margaret,  mourning  over 
Sdtfolk's  head." 

Q.  Mar.  Oft  have  I  heard — that  grief  softens 
the  mind. 
And  makes  it  fearful  and  degenerate 

886 


Think  therefore  on  revenge,  and  cease  to  weep. 
But  who  can  cease  to  weep,  and  look  on  this  ? 
Here  may  his  head  lie  on  my  throbbing  breast : 
But  where  's  the  body  that  I  should  embrace? 

Buck.  What  answer  makes  your  grace  to  the 
rebels'  supplication  ? 

K.  Hen.  I  '11  send  some  holy  bishop  to  entreat: 
For  God  forbid,  so  many  simple  souls 
Should  perish  by  the  sword  !     And  I  myself. 
Rather  than  bloody  war  shall  cut  them  short. 
Will  parley  with  Jack  Cade  their  general. — 
But  stay,  I  '11  read  it  over  once  again. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah,  barbarous  villains !  hath  this  lovely 
face 
Rul'd,  like  a  wandering  planet,  over  me ; 
And  could  it  not  enforce  them  to  relent, 
That  were  unworthy  to  behold  the  same  ? 

IC.  Hen.  Lord  Say,  Jack  Cade  hath  sworn  to 
have  thy  head. 

Say.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  your  highness  shall  have 
his. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  madam  ?     Still 
Lamenting,  and  mourning  for  Suffolk's  death  ? 
I  fear,  my  love,  if  that  I  had  been  dead. 
Thou  wouldest  not  have  mourn'd  so  much  for  me. 

Q.  Mar.  No,  my  love,  I  should  not  mourn,  but 
die  for  thee. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  what  news  ?  why  com'st 

thou  in  such  haste  ? 
Mess.  The  rebels  are  in  Southwark :  Fly,  my 
lord! 
Jack  Cade  proclaims  himself  lord  Mortimer, 
Descended  from  the  duke  of  Clarence'  house ; 
And  calls  your  grace  usurper,  openly, 
And  vows  to  crown  himself  in  Westminster. 
His  army  is  a  ragged  multitude 
Of  hinds  and  peasants,  rude  and  merciless : 
Sir  Humphrey  Stafford  and  his  brother's  death 
Hath  given  them  heart  and  courage  to  proceed ' 
All  scholars,  lawyers,  courtiers,  gentlemen. 
They  call — false   caterpillars,   and   intend   their 
death. 
K.  Hen.  0  graceless  men  !  they  know  not  what 

they  do. 
Buck.  My  gracious  lord,  retire  to  Kenelworth, 
Until  a  power  be  rais'd  to  put  them  down. 

Q.  Mar.  Ah  !  were  the  duke  of  Sutiblk  now 
alive. 
These  Kentish  rebels  would  be  soon  appeas'd. 
K.  Hen.  Lord  Say,  the  traitcrs  hate  thee. 


ACT   IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTJi. 


SCENE    V-VIX. 


Therefore  away  with  us  to  Kenelworth. 

Sa]/.    So    might   your   grace's    person   be   in 
danger ; 
The  sight  of  me  is  odious  in  their  eyes  : 
And  therefore  in  this  city  will  I  stay, 
And  live  alone  as  secret  as  I  may. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

2nd  Mess.    Jack  Cade  hath   gotten   London- 
bridge;  the  citizens 
Fly  and  forsake  their  houses  : 
The  rascal  people,  thirsting  after  prey. 
Join  with  the  traitor ;  and  they  jointly  swear, 
l"o  spoil  the  city,  and  your  royal  court. 

Buck.  Then  linger  not,  my  lord ;  away,  take 

horse. 
K.  Hen.  Come,  Margaret ;  God,  our  hope,  will 

succour  us. 
Q.  Mar.  My  hope  is  gone,  now  Suflfolk  is  de- 

ceas'd. 
K.  Hen.   Farewell,  my  lord  ;  [To  Say.]  trust 

not  the  Kentish  rebels 
Buck.  Trust  no  body,  for  fear  you  be  betray'd. 
Say.  The  trust  I  have  is  in  mine  innocence. 
And  therefore  am  I  bold  and  resolute.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Y.—The  Same.     The  Tower. 

Enter  Lord  Scales,  and  Others,  on   the  Walls. 
Then  enter  certain  Citizens,  below. 

Scales.  How  now  ?  is  Jack  Cade  slain  ? 

1st  Cit.  No,  my  lord,  nor  likely  to  be  slain  ;  for 
they  have  won  the  bridge,  killing  all  those  that 
withstand  them :  The  lord  mayor  craves  aid  of 
your  honour  from  the  Tower,  to  defend  the  city 
from  the  rebels. 

Scales.  Such  aid  as  I  can  spare,  you  shall  com- 
mand ; 
But  I  am  troubled  here  with  them  myself, 
The  rebels  have  assay'd  to  win  the  Tower. 
But  get  you  to  Smithfield,  and  gather  head. 
And  thither  I  will  send  you  Matthew  Gough  : 
Fight  for  your  king,  your  country,  and  your  lives ; 
And  so  farewell,  for  I  must  hence  again.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  YL—The  Same.     Cannon  Street. 


Enter  Jack  Cade,  and  his  Followers.   He  strikes 
his  Staff  on  London-stone. 

Cade.  Now  is  Mortimer  lord  of  this  city.     And 

here,  sitting  upon  London-stone,  I  charge  and 

command,   that,  of  the  city's  cost,  the  pissing-  ]  one  shilling  to  the  pound,  the  last  subsidy, 
us  937 


conduit  run  nothing  but  claret  wine  this  first 
year  of  our  reign.  And  now,  henceforward,  it 
shall  be  treason  for  any  that  calls  me  other  than — 
lord  Mortimer. 

Enter  a  Soldier,  running. 

Sold.  Jack  Cade !  Jack  Cade ! 

Cade.  Knock  him  down  there.  [They  kill  him. 

Smith.  If  this  fellow  be  wise,  he  '11  never  call 
you  Jack  Cade  more :  I  think,  he  hath  a  very  fair 
warning. 

Dick.  My  lord,  there  's  an  ariny  gathered  toge- 
ther in  Smithfield. 

Cade.  Come  then,  let  's  go  fight  with  them : 
But,  first,  go  and  set  London-bridge  on  fire  ;°^  and, 
if  you  can,  burn  down  the  Tower  too.  Come, 
let 's  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Yll.—The  Same.    Smithfield. 

Alarum.  Enter,  on  one  side,  Cade  and  his  Com- 
pany ;  on  the  other,  Citizens,  and  the  King^s 
Forces,  headed  by  Matthew  Gough.  They 
fight ;  the  Citizens  are  routed,  and  Matthew 
Gough  is  slainP 

Cade.  So,  sirs  : — Now  go  some  and  pull  down 
the  Savoy  ;  others  to  the  inns  of  court ;  down  with 
them  all. 

Dick.  I  have  a  suit  unto  your  lordship. 

Cade.  Be  it  a  lordship,  thou  shalt  have  it  for 
that  word. 

Dick.  Only,  that  the  laws  of  England  may 
come  out  of  your  mouth. 

John.  Mass,  't  will  be  sore  law  then  ;  for  he  was 
thrust  in  the  mouth  with  a  spear,  and  't  is  not 
whole  yet.  [Aside. 

Smith.  Nay,  John,  it  will  be  stinking  law;  for 
his  breath  stinks  with  eating  toasted  cheese. 

[Aside, 

Cade.  I  have  thought  upon  it,  it  shall  be  so. 
Away,  burn  all  the  records  of  the  realm ;  my 
mouth  shall  be  the  parliament  of  England. 

John.  Then  we  are  like  to  have  biting  statutes, 
unless  his  teeth  be  pulled  out.  [Aside. 

Cade.  And  henceforward  all  things  shall  be  in 
common. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  a  prize,  a  prize !  here  's  the 
lord  Say,  which  sold  the  towns  in  France  ;  he 
that  made  us  pay  one-and-twenty  fifteens,"  and 


ACT   IV. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


suKNfi  vn. 


Enter  George  Bevis,  with  the  Lord  Say. 

Cade.  Well,  he  shall  be  beheaded  for  it  ten 
times. — Ah,  thou  say,  thou  serge,  nay,  thou  buck- 
ram lord  I"  now  art  thou  within  point  blank  of 
our  jurisdiction  regal.  What  canst  thou  answer 
to  my  majesty,  for  giving  up  of  Normandy  unto 
monsieur  Basimecu,  the  dauphin  of  France?  Be 
it  known  unto  thee  by  these  presence,  even  the 
presence  of  lord  Mortimer,  that  I  am  the  besom 
that  must  sweep  the  court  clean  of  such  filth  as 
thou  art.  Thou  hast  most  traitorously  corrupted 
the  youth  of  the  realm,  in  erecting  a  grammar- 
school  :  and  whereas,  before,  our  fore-fathers  had 
no  other  books  but  the  score  and  the  tally,  thou 
hast  caused  printing  to  be  used  ;  and,  contrary  to 
the  king,  his  crown,  and  dignity,  thou  hast  built 
a  paper-mill.  It  will  be  proved  to  thy  face,  that 
thou  hast  men  about  thee,  that  usually  talk  of  a 
noun,  and  a  verb;  and  such  abominable  words, 
as  no  Christian  ear  can  endure  to  hear.  Thou 
hast  appointed  justices  of  peace,  to  call  poor  men 
before  them  about  matters  they  were  not  able  to 
answer.  Moreover,  thou  hast  put  them  in  prison  ; 
and  because  they  could  not  read,  thou  hast  hanged 
them ;"  when,  indeed,  only  for  that  cause  they 
have  been  most  worthy  to  live.  Thou  dost  ride 
on  a  foot-cloth,"  dost  thou  not  ? 

Say.  What  of  that? 

Cade.  Many,  thou  oughtest  not  to  let  thy 
horse  wear  a  cloak,  when  honester  men  than  thou 
go  in  their  hose  and  doublets. 

Dick.  And  work  in  their  shirt  too ;  as  myself, 
for  example,  that  am  a  butcher. 

Say.  You  men  of  Kent, 

Dick.  What  say  you  of  Kent? 

Say.  Nothing  but  this :  'T  is  bona  terra,  mala 
gens. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  away  with  him !  he 
speaks  Latin. 

Say.  Hear  me  but  speak,  and  bear  me  where 
you  will. 
Kent,  in  the  commentaries  Caesar  writ, 
Is  term'd  the  civil'st  place  of  all  this  isle. 
Sweet  is  the  country,  because  full  of  riches ; 
The  people  liberal,  valiant,  active,  wealthy ; 
Which  makes  me  hope  you  are  not  void  of  pity. 
I  sold  not  Maine,  I  lost  not  Normandy, 
Yet,  to  recover  them,  would  lose  my  life. 
Justice  with  fiwour  have  I  always  done; 
Prayers   and   tears   have  mov'd  me,  gifts  could 
never. 
«S8 


When  have  I  aught  exacted  at  your  hands, 
Kent  to  maintain,  the  king,  the  realm,  and  you  V 
Large  gifts  have  I  bestow'd  on  learned  clerks, 
Because  my  book  preferr'd  me  to  the  king  : 
And — seeing  ignorance  is  the  curse  of  God, 
Knowledge  the  wing  wherewith  we  fly  to  heaven,— 
Unless  you  be  possess'd  with  devilish  spirits, 
You  cannot  but  forbear  to  murder  me. 
This  tongue  hath  parley'd  unto  foreign  kings 
For  your  behoof, 

Cade.  Tut!  when  struck'st  thou  one  blow  in 
the  field  ? 

Say.  Great  men  have  reaching  hands  :  oft  have 
I  struck 
Those  that  I  never  saw,  and  struck  them  dead. 

Geo,  0  monstrous  coward !  what,  to  come  be- 
hind folks  ? 

Say.  These  cheeks  are  pale  for  watching  for 
your  good. 

Cade.  Give  him  a  box  o'  the  ear,  and  that  will 
make  'em  red  again. 

Say.  Long  sitting  to  determine  poor   men's 
causes 
Hath  made  me  full  of  sickness  and  diseases. 

Cade.  Ye  shall  have  a  hempen  caudle  then,  and 
the  pap  of  a  hatchet. 

Dick.  Why  dost  thou  quiver,  man  ? 

Say.  The  palsy,  and  not  fear,  provoketh  me. 

Cade.  Nay,  he  nods  at  us ;  as  who  should  say, 
I  '11  be  even  with  you.  I  'II  see  if  his  head  will 
stand  steadier  on  a  pole,  or  no :  Take  him  away, 
and  behead  him. 

Say.  Tell  me,  wherein  I  have  offended  most  ? 
Have  I  affected  wealth,  or  honour  ?  speak  : 
Are  my  chests  fiU'd  up  with  extorted  gold  ? 
Is  my  apparel  sumptuous  to  behold  ? 
Whom  have  I  injur'd,  that  ye  seek  my  death  ? 
These  hands  are  free  from  guiltless  blood-shed- 
ding, 
This    breast    from     harbouring    foul     deceitful 

thoughts. 
0,  let  me  live  1 

Cade.  I  feel  remorse  in  myself  with  his  words  : 
but  I  '11  bridle  it ;  he  shall  die,  an  it  be  but  for 
pleading  so  well  for  his  life.  Away  with  him ! 
he  has  a  familiar  imder  his  tongue  ;  he  speaks  not 
o'  God's  name.  Go,  take  him  away,  I  say,  and 
strike  off  his  head  presently  ;  and  then  bi-eak  into 
his  son  in-law's  house.  Sir  James  Cromer,  and 
strike  off  his  head,  and  bring  them  both  upon  two 
poles  hither. 

All.  It  shall  be  done. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE  vin. 


Say.  Ah,  countrymen  !  if  when  you  make  your 
prayers, 
God  should  be  so  obdurate  as  yourselves, 
How  would  it  fare  with  your  departed  souls  ? 
And  therefore  yet  relent,  and  save  my  life. 

Cade.  Away  with  him,  and  do  as  I  command 
ye.  \^Exeunt  some,  with  Say. 

The  proudest  peer  in  the  realm  shall  not  wear  a 
head  on  his  shoulders,  unless  he  pay  me  tribute ; 
there  shall  not  a  maid  be  married,  but  she  shall 
pay  to  me  her  maidenhead  ere  they  have  it : 
Men  shall  hold  of  me  in  capite  ;  and  we  charge 
and  command,  that  their  wives  be  as  free  as  heart 
can  wish,  or  tongue  can  tell. 

Dick.  My  lord,  when  shall  we  go  to  Cheapside, 
and  take  up  commodities  upon  our  bills  ?" 

Cade.  Marry,  presently. 

All.  0  brave ! 

Re-enter  Rebels,  with  the  heads  of  Lord  Say  and 
his  Son-in-law. 

Cade.  But  is  not  this  braver^ — Let  them  kiss 
one  another,  for  they  loved  well  when  they  were 
alive.  Now  part  them  again,  lest  they  consult 
about  the  giving  up  of  some  more  towns  in  France. 
Soldiers,  defer  the  spoil  of  the  city  until  night : 
for  with  these  borne  before  us,  instead  of  maces, 
will  we  ride  through  the  streets ;  and,  at  every 
corner,  have  them  kiss. — Away !  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VKL— Southwark. 
Alarum.     Enter  Cade,  and  all  his  Rabble^nent, 

Cade.  Up  Fish-street !  down  Saint  Magnus' 
corner !  kill  and  knock  down  !  throw  them  into 
Thames  1 —  [A  Parley  sounded,  then  a  Retreat.] 
What  noise  is  this  I  hear  ?  Dare  any  be  so  bold 
to  sound  retreat  or  parley,  when  I  command  them 
kill? 

Enter  Buckingham,  and  Old  Clifford,  with 
Forces. 

Buck.  Ay,  here  they  be  that  dare  and  will  dis- 
turb thee : 
Know,  Cade,  we  come  ambassadors  from  the  king 
Unto  the  commons  whom  thou  hast  misled; 
And  here  pronounce  free  pardon  to  them  all, 
That  will  forsake  thee,  and  go  home  in  peace. 

CUf.  What  say  ye,  countrymen  ?  will  ye  relent. 
And  yield  to  mercy,  whilst 't  is  oflfer'd  you ; 
Or  let  a  rabble  lead  you  to  your  deaths  ? 
Who  loves  the  king,  and  will  embrace  his  pardon, 


Fling  up  his  cap,  and  say — God  save  his  majesty ! 
Who  hateth  him,  and  honours  not  his  father, 
Henry  the  Fifth,  that  made  all  France  to  quake. 
Shake  he  his  weapon  at  us,  and  pass  by. 

All.  God  save  the  king  !  God  save  the  king ! 

Cade.  What,  Buckingham,  and  CliflPord,  are  ye 
so  brave  ? — And  you,  base  peasants,  do  ye  believe 
him  ?  will  you  needs  be  hanged  with  your  par- 
dons about  your  necks?  Hath  my  sword  there- 
fore broke  through  London  Gates,  that  you  should 
leave  me  at  the  White  Hart  in  Southwark  ?  I 
thought,  you  would  never  have  given  out  these 
arms,  till  you  had  recovered  your  ancient  freedom  : 
but  you  are  all  recreants,  and  dastards ;  and  de- 
light to  live  in  slavery  to  the  nobility.  Let  them 
break  your  backs  with  burdens,  take  your  houses 
over  your  heads,  ravish  your  wives  and  daughters 
before  your  faces  :  For  me, — I  will  make  shift  for 
one ;  and  so — God's  curse  'light  upon  you  all. 

All.  We  '11  follow  Cade,  we  '11  follow  Cade. 

CUf.  Is  Cade  the  son  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
That  thus  you  do  exclaim — you  '11  go  with  him  ? 
Will  he  conduct  you  through  the  heart  of  France, 
And  make  the  meanest  of  you  earls  and  dukes  ? 
Alas,  he  hath  no  home,  no  place  to  fly  to ; 
Nor  knows  he  how  to  live,  but  by  the  spoil. 
Unless  by  robbing  of  your  friends,  and  us. 
Were  't  not  a  shaine,  that  whilst  you  live  at  jar, 
The  fearful  French,  whom  you  late  vanquished. 
Should  make  a  start  o'er  seas,  and  vanquish  you  ? 
Methinks  already,  in  this  civil  broil, 
I  see  them  lording  it  in  London  streets, 
Crying — Villageois  !  unto  all  they  meet. 
Better,  ten  thousand  base-born  Cades  miscarry. 
Than  you  should  stoop  unto  a  Frenchman's  mercy. 
To  France,  to  France,  and  get  what  you  have  lost ; 
Spare  England,  for  it  is  your  native  coast : 
Henry  hath  money,  you  are  strong  and  manly ; 
God  on  our  side,  doubt  not  of  victoiy. 

All.  A  Clifford  !  a  Clifford  !  we  '11  follow  the 
king,  and  Cliftbrd. 

Cade.  Was  ever  feather  so  lightly  blown  to  and 
fro,  as  this  multitude  ?  the  name  of  Henry  the 
Fifth  hales  them  to  an  hundred  mischiefs,  and 
makes  them  leave  me  desolate.  I  see  them  lay 
their  heads  together,  to  surprise  me :  my  sword 
make  way  for  me,  for  here  is  no  staying. — In  de- 
spite of  the  devils  and  hell,  have  through  the  very 
midst  of  you  !  and  heavens  and  honour  be  wit 
ness,  that  no  want  of  resolution  iu  me,  but  only 
my  followers'  base  and  ignominious  treasons, 
makes  me  betake  me  to  my  heels.  \Exit. 

939 


I 


ACT    IV. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE    IX- X. 


Buck.  What,  is  he  fled  ?  go  some,  and  follow 
him ; 
And  he,  that  brings  his  head  unto  the  king, 
Shall  have  a  thousand  crowns  for  his  reward. — 

\Exeunt  some  of  them. 
Follow  me,  soldiers ;  we  '11  devise  a  mean 


To  reconcile  vou  all  unto  the  kins. 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IX.— Kenelworth  Castle. 

Enter    King    Henry,   Queen    Margaret,   and 
Somerset,  on  the  Terrace  of  the  Castle. 

K.  Hen.  Was  ever  king  that  joy'd  an  earthly 
throne, 
And  could  command  no  more  content  than  I  ? 
No  sooner  was  I  crept  out  of  my  cradle. 
But  I  was  made  a  king,  at  nine  months  old  '}^ 
Was  never  subject  long'd  to  be  a  king, 
As  I  do  long  and  wish  to  be  a  subject. 

Enter  Buckingham  and  Clifford. 

Buck.  Health,  and  glad  tidings,  to  your  ma- 
jesty ! 
K.   lien.    Why,  Buckingham,  is  the   traitor. 
Cade,  surpris'd  ? 
Or  is  he  but  retir'd  to  make  him  strong  ? 

Enter ^  below,  a  great  number  q/"  Cade's  Followers, 
with  Halters  about  their  Necks. 

Clif.  He  's  fled,  my  lord,  and  all  his  powers  do 

yield ; 
And  humbly  thus,  with  halters  on  their  necks, 
Expect  your  highness'  doom,  of  life,  or  death. 
K.  Hen.  Then,  heaven,  set  ope  thy  everlasting 

gates. 
To  entertain  my  vows  of  thanks  and  praise ! — 
Soldiers,  this  day  have  you  redeem'd  your  lives, 
And  show'd  how  well  you  love  your  prince  and 

country  : 
Continue  still  in  this  so  good  a  mind, 
And  Henry,  though  he  be  infortunate. 
Assure  yourselves,  will  never  be  unkind  : 
And  so,  with  thanks,  and  pardon  to  you  all, 
I  do  dismiss  you  to  your  several  countries. 

All.  God  save  the  king !     God  save  the  king ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Please  it  your  grace  to  be  advertised, 
The  duke  of  York  is  newly  come  from  Ireland  : 
And  with  a  puissant  and  a  mighty  power, 
Of  Gallowgl asses,  and  stout  Kernes, 
Is  marching  hitherward  in  proud  array  ; 
940 


And  still  proclaimeth,  as  he  comes  along. 

His  arms  are  only  to  remove  from  thee 

The  duke  of  Somerset,  whom  he  terms  a  traitor. 

K.  Hen.  Thus  stands  my  state,  'twixt  Cade  anu 
York  distress'd ; 
Like  to  a  ship,  that,  having  scap'd  a  tempest, 
Is  straightway  calm'd  and  boarded  with  a  pirate; 
But  now  is  Cade  driven  back,  his  men  dispers'd ; 
And  now  is  York  in  arms  to  second  him. — 
I  pray  thee,  Buckingham,  go  forth  and  meet  him 
And  ask  him  what 's  the  reason  of  these  arms. 
Tell  him,  I  '11  send  duke  Edmund  to  the  Tower ; — 
And,  Somerset,  we  will  commit  thee  thither. 
Until  his  army  be  dismiss'd  from  him. 

Som.  My  lord, 
I  '11  yield  myself  to  prison  willingly, 
Or  unto  death,  to  do  my  country  good. 

K.  Hen.    In  any  case,  be  not  too  rough  ir 
terms. 
For  he  is  fierce,  and  cannot  brook  hard  language. 

Buck.  I  will,  my  lord  ;  and  doubt  not  so  to  deal. 
As  all  things  shall  redound  unto  your  good. 

K.  Hen.   Come,  wife,  let  's  in,  and  learn  to 
govern  better ; 
For  yet  may  England  curee  my  wretched  reign. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  X.— Kent.     Iden's  Garden. 
Enter  Cade. 

Cade.  Fie  on  ambition !  fie  on  myself ;  that 
have  a  sword,  and  yet  am  ready  to  famish ! 
These  five  days  have  I  hid  me  in  these  woods ; 
and  durst  not  peep  out,  for  all  the  country  is  lay'd 
for  ma;  but  now  am  I  so  hungry,  that  if  I  might 
have  a  lease  of  my  life  for  a  thousand  years,  I 
could  stay  no  longer.  Wherefore,  on  a  brick- 
wall  have  I  climbed  into  this  garden  ;  to  see  if  I 
can  eat  grass,  or  pick  asallet  another  while,  which 
is  not  amiss  to  cool  a  man's  stomach  this  hot 
weather.  And,  I  think,  this  word  sallet  was  bom 
to  do  me  good  :  for,  many  a  time,  but  for  a  sallet, 
my  brain-pan  had  been  cleft  with  a  brown  bill ;" 
and,  many  a  time,  when  I  have  been  dry,  and 
bravely  marching,  it  hath  served  me  instead  of  a 
quart- pot  to  drink  in  ;  and  now  the  word  sallet 
must  serve  me  to  feed  on. 

Enter  Iden,  with  Servants. 

Iden.  Lord,  who  would  live  turmoiled  in  the 
court. 
And  may  enjoy  such  quiet  walks  as  these  ? 


i 


A<rr  V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCBNE   I. 


This  small  inheritance,  my  father  left  me, 
Contenteth  me,  and  is  worth  a  monarchy. 
I  seek  not  to  wax  great  by  others'  waning ; 
Or  gather  wealth,  I  care  not  with  what  envy ; 
Sufficeth,  that  I  have  maintains  my  state. 
And  sends  the  poor  well  pleased  from  my  gate. 

Cade.  Here  's  the  lord  of  the  soil  come  to  seize 
me  for  a  stray,  for  entering  his  fee-simple  without 
leave.  Ah,  villain,  thou  wilt  betray  me,  and  get 
a  thousand  crowns  of  the  king  for  carrying  my 
head  to  him  ;  but  I  '11  make  thee  eat  iron  like  an 
ostrich,  and  swallow  my  sword  like  a  great  pin, 
ere  thou  and  I  part. 

Iden.  Why,  rude  companion,  whatsoe'er  thou  be, 
I  know  thee  not :  Why  then  should  I  betray  thee  ? 
Is  't  not  enough,  to  break  into  my  garden, 
And,  like  a  thief,  to  come  to  rob  my  grounds, 
Climbing  my  walls  in  spite  of  me  the  owner. 
But  thou  wilt  brave  me  with  these  saucy  terms  ? 

Cade.  Brave  thee  ?  ay,  by  the  best  blood  that 
ever  was  broached,  and  beard  thee  too.  Look  on 
me  well :  I  have  eat  no  meat  these  five  days ; 
yet,  come  thou  and  thy  five  men,  and  if  I  do  not 
leave  you  all  as  dead  as  a  door  nail,  I  pray  God, 
I  may  never  eat  grass  more. 

Iden.  Nay,  it  shall  ne'er  be  said,  while  England 
stands, 
That  Alexander  Iden,  an  esquire  of  Kent, 
Took  odds  to  combat  a  poor  famish'd  man. 
Oppose  thy  stedfast-gazing  eyes  to  mine, 
See  if  thou  canst  outface  me  with  thy  looks. 
Set  limb  to  limb,  and  thou  art  far  the  lesser ; 
Thy  hand  is  but  a  finger  to  my  fist ; 
.Thy  leg  a  stick,  compared  with  this  truncheon  ; 
My  foot  shall  fight  with  all  the  strength  thou  hast ; 
And  if  mine  arm  be  heaved  in  the  air. 
Thy  grave  is  digg'd  already  in  the  earth. 


As  for  more  words,  whose  greatness  answers  words, 
Let  this  my  sword  report  what  speech  forbears. 

Cade.  By  my  valour,  the  most  complete  cham- 
pion that  ever  I  heard. — Steel,  if  thou  turn  the 
edge,  or  cut  not  out  the  burly-boned  clown  in 
chines  of  beef  ere  thou  sleep  in  thy  sheath,  I  be- 
seech God  on  my  knees,  thou  mayest  be  turned 
to  hobnails.  [They  fight.  Cade  fallsl\  0,  I 
am  slain  !  famine,  and  no  other,  hath  slain  me : 
let  ten  thousand  devils  come  against  me,  and  give 
me  but  the  ten  meals  I  have  lost,  and  I  'd  defy 
them  all.  Wither,  garden  ;  and  be  henceforth  a 
burying-place  to  all  that  do  dwell  in  this  house, 
because  the  unconquered  soul  of  Cade  is  fled. 

Iden.  Is  't  Cade  that  I  have  slain,  that  mon- 
strous traitor  ? 
Sword,  I  will  hallow  thee  for  this  thy  deed. 
And  hang  thee  o'er  my  tomb,  when  1  am  dead  : 
Ne'er  shall  this  blood  be  wiped  from  thy  point ; 
But  thou  shalt  wear  it  as  a  herald's  coat, 
To  emblaze  the  honour  that  thy  master  got. 

Cade.  Iden,  farewell ;  and  be  proud  of  thy  vic- 
tory :  Tell  Kent  from  me,  she  hath  lost  her  best 
man,  and  exhort  all  the  world  to  be  cowards  ;  for 
I,  that  never  feared  any,  am  vanquished  by  famine, 
not  by  valour.  \^Dies. 

Iden.  How  much  thou  wrong'st  me,  heaven  be 
my  judge. 
Die,  damned  wretch,  the  curse  of  her  that  bare  thee ! 
And  as  I  thrust  thy  body  in  with  my  sword, 
So  wish  I,  I  might  thrust  thy  soul  to  hell. 
Hence  will  I  drag  thee  headlong  by  the  heels 
Unto  a  dunghill,  which  shall  be  thy  grave. 
And  there  cut  ofi"  thy  most  ungracious  head ; 
Which  I  will  bear  in  triumph  to  the  king, 
Leaving  thy  trunk  for  crows  to  feed  upon. 

\^Exit,  dragging  out  the  Body. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     Fields  between  Dartford 
and  Blackheath. 

The  King's  Camp  on  one  side.  On  tlie  other,  en- 
ter York,  attended,  with  Drum  and  Colours : 
his  Forces  at  some  distance. 

York.  From  Ireland  thus  comes  York,  to  claim 
his  right, 


And  pluck  the  crown  from  feeble  Henry's  head  : 
Ring,  bells,  aloud;  burn,  bonfires,  clear  and  bright, 
To  entertain  great  England's  lawful  king. 
Ah,  sancta  majestas  /  who  would  not  buy  thee 

dear  ? 
Let  them  obey,  that  know  not  how  to  rule  ; 
This  hand  was  made  to  handle  nought  but  gold  : 
I  cannot  give  due  action  to  my  words, 

941 


ACl    V. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENK    1. 


Except  a  sword,  or  sceptre,  balance  it. 
A.  sceptre  shall  it  have,  have  I  a  soul ; 
On  which  I  '11  toss  the  flower-de-luce  of  France. 

Enter  Buckingham. 

Whom  have  we  here  ?  Buckingham,  to  disturb 

me? 
Tiie  king  hath  sent  him,  sure :  I  must  dissemble. 
Buck.  York,  if  thou  meanest  well,  I  greet  thee 

well. 
York.  Humphrey  of  Buckingham,  I  accept  thy 

greeting. 
Art  thou  a  messenger,  or  come  of  pleasure  ? 
Buck.    A  messenger   from  Henry,   our  dread 

liege. 
To  know  the  reason  of  these  arms  in  peace ; 
Or  why,  thou — being  a  subject  as  I  am — 
Against  thy  oath  and  true  allegiance  sworn, 
Should'st  raise  so  great  a  power  without  his  leave. 
Or  dare  to  bring  thy  force  so  near  the  court. 
York.    Scarce  can  I  speak,  my  choler  is  so 

great. 
O,  I  could  hew  up  rocks,  and  fight  with  flint, 
I  am  so  angry  at  these  abject  terms  ; 
And  now,  like  Ajax  Telamonius, 
On  sheep  or  oxen  could  I  spend  my  fury ! 
I  am  far  better  born  than  is  the  king ; 
More  like  a  king,  more  kingly  in  my  thoughts : 
But  I  must  make  fair  weather  yet  a  while, 
Till  Henry  be  more  weak,  and  I  more  strong. — 

\_Aside. 
O  Buckingham,  I  pr'ythee,  pardon  me, 
That  I  have  given  no  answer  all  this  while; 
My  mind  was  troubled  with  deep  melancholy. 
The  cause  why  I  have  brought  this  army  hither. 
Is — to  remove  proud  Somerset  from  the  king. 
Seditious  to  his  grace,  and  to  the  state. 

Buck.  That  is  too  much  presumption  on  thy 

part: 
But  if  thy  arms  be  to  no  other  end. 
The  king  hath  yielded  unto  thy  demand  : 
The  duke  of  Somerset  is  in  the  Tower. 

York.  Upon  thine  honour,  is  he  prisoner  ? 
Buck.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  is  prisoner. 
York.  Then,  Buckingham,  I  do  dismiss  my 

powers. — 
Soldiers,  I  thank  you  all ;  disperse  yourselves ; 
Meet  me  to-morrow  in  Saint  George's  field. 
You  shall  have  pay,  and  everything  you  wish. 
And  let  my  sovereign,  virtuous  Henry, 
Command  my  eldest  son, — nay,  all  my  sons, 
As  pledges  of  my  fealty  and  love, 

842 


I  '11  send  them  all  as  willing  as  I  live ; 

Lands,  goods,  horse,  armour,  any  thing  I  have. 

Is  his  to  use,  so  Somerset  may  die. 

Buck.  York,  I  commend  this  kind  submission : 
We  twain  -will  go  into  his  highness'  tent. 

Enter  King  Henrt,  attended. 

K.  Hen.    Buckingham,  doth  York  intend  no 
harm  to  us, 
That  thus  he  marcheth  with  thee  arm  in  arm  ? 

York.  In  all  submission  and  humility, 
York  doth  present  himself  unto  your  highness. 
K.  Hen.  Then  what  intend  these  forces  thou 

dost  bring  ? 
York.    To   heave    the    traitor  Somerset   fronc 
hence ; 
And  fight  against  that  monstrous  rebel,  Cade, 
Who  since  I  heard  to  be  discomfited. 

Enter  Iden,  with  Cade's  Head. 

Men.  If  one  so  rude,  and  of  so  mean  condition, 
May  pass  into  the  presence  of  a  king, 
Lo,  I  present  your  grace  a  traitor's  head, 
The  head  of  Cade,  whom  I  in  combat  slew. 
K.  Hen.  The  head  of  Cade  ? — Great  God,  how 
just  art  thou  ! — 
O,  let  me  view  his  visage  being  dead. 
That  living  wrought  me  such  exceeding  trouble. 
Tell  me,  my  friend,  art  thou  the  man  that  slew 
him? 
Iden.  I  was,  an  't  like  your  majesty. 
K.  Hen.  How  art  thou  call'd  ?  and  what  is  thy 

degree  ? 
Iden.  Alexander  Iden,  that  's  my  name  ; 
A  poor  esquire  of  Kent,  that  loves  his  king. 
Buck.    So   please  it  you,  my  lord,  't  were  not 
amiss 
He  were  created  knight  for  his  good  service. 
K.  Hen.  Iden,  kneel  down  :  [He  kneels^  Risd 
up  a  knight. 
We  give  thee  for  reward  a  thousand  marks ; 
And  will,  that  thou  henceforth  attend  on  us. 

Iden.  May  Iden  live  to  merit  such  a  bounty, 
And  never  live  but  true  unto  his  liege ! 

K.  Hen.  See,  Buckingham  !    Somerset  comes 
with  the  queen ; 
Go,  bid  her  hide  him  quickly  from  the  duke. 

Enter  Queen  Margaret  and  Somerset. 

Q.  Mar.  For  thousand  Yorks  he  shall  not  hid* 
his  head, 
But  boldly  stand,  and  front  him  to  his  face. 


ACT    V 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


York.  How  now  !     Is  Somerset  at  liberty  ? 
Til  en,  York,  unloose  thy  long-imprison'd  thoughts, 
And  let  thy  tongue  be  equal  with  thy  heart. 
Shall  I  endure  the  sight  of  Somerset  ? — 
False  king!  why  hast  thou  broken  faith  with  me, 
Knowing  how  hardly  I  can  brook  abuse  ? 
King  did  I  call  thee  ?  no,  thou  art  not  king ; 
Not  fit  to  govei'n  and  rule  multitudes, 
Which  dar'st  not,  no,  nor  canst  not  rule  a  traitor. 
That  head  of  thine  doth  not  become  a  crown  ; 
Thy  hand  is  made  to  grasp  a  palmer's  staff, 
And  not  to  grace  an  awful  princely  sceptre. 
That  gold  must  round  engirt  these  brows  of  mine  ; 
Whose  smile  and  frown,  like  to  Achilles'  spear. 
Is  able  with  the  change  to  kill  and  cure. 
Here  is  a  hand  to  hold  a  sceptre  up, 
And  with  the  same  to  act  controlling  laws. 
Give  place  ;  by  heaven,  thou  shalt  rule  no  more 
O'er  him,  whom  heaven  created  for  thy  ruler. 

Sorn.     O    monstrous    traitor  ! — I    arrest    thee, 
York, 
Of  capital  treason  'gainst  the  king  and  crown : 
Obey,  audacious  traitor ;  kneel  for  grace. 

Yorh.  Would'st  have  me  kneel  ?  first  let  ine 
ask  of  these, 
If  they  can  brook  I  bow  a  knee  to  man. — 
Sirrah,  call  in  my  sons  to  be  my  bail ;  ^ 

\Exit  an  Attendant. 
I  know,  ere  they  will  have  me  go  to  ward, 
They  '11  pawn  their  swords  for  my  enfranchisement. 

Q.  Mar.  Call  hither  Cliflbrd  ;  bid   him   come 
amain. 
To  say,  if  that  the  bastard  boys  of  York 
Shall  be  the  surety  for  their  traitor  father. 

York.  O  blood-bespotted  Neapolitan, 
Outcast  of  Naples,  England's  bloody  scourge  ! 
The  sons  of  York,  thy  betters  in  their  birth. 
Shall  be  their  father's  bail ;  and  bane  to  those 
That  for  my  surety  will  refuse  the  boys. 

Enter  Edward  and  Richard  Plantagenet,  with 
Forces,  at  one  side ;  at  the  other,  with  Forces 
also,  old  Clifford  and  his  Son. 

See,  where  they  come ;  I  '11  warrant  they  '11  make 
it  good. 
Q.  Mar.  And  here  comes  Cliffbrd,  to  deny  their 

bail, 
Clif.  Health  and  all  happiness  to  my  lord  the 
king !  [Kneels. 

York.  I  thank  thee,  Clifford :  Say,  what  news 
with  thee  ? 
N^ay,  do  not  fright  us  with  an  angry  look : 


We  are  thy  sovereign,  Clifibrd,  kneel  aga.n; 
For  thy  mistaking  so,  we  pardon  thee. 

Clif.  This  is  my  king,  York,  I  do  not  mistake 
But  thou  mistak'st  me  much,  to  think  I  do : — 
To  Bedlam  with  him  !  is  the  man  grown  mad  ? 

K.Hen.  Ay,  Clifford;  a  bedlam  and  ambitious 
humour 
Makes  him  oppose  himself  against  his  king. 

Clif.  He  is  a  traitor;  let  him  to  the  Tower, 
And  chop  away  that  factious  pate  of  his. 

Q.  Mar.  He  is  arrested,  but  will  not  obey ; 
His  sons,  he  says,  shall  give  their  words  for  him. 

York.  Will  you  not,  sons  ? 

Edw.  Ay,  noble  father,  if  our  words  will  serve 

Rich.  And  if  words  will  not,  then  our  weapons 
shall. 

Clif.   Why,  what  a  brood  of  traitors  have  we 
here ! 

York.  Look  in  a  glass,  and  call  thy  image  so ; 
I  am  thy  king,  and  thou  a  false-hearted  traitor.-  • 
Call  hither  to  the  stake  my  two  brave  bears,** 
That,  with  the  very  shaking  of  their  chains, 
They  may  astonish  these  fell  looking  curs; 
Bid  Salisbury,  and  Warwick,  come  to  me. 

Drums.     Enter  Warwick  and  Salisbury,  with 
Forces. 

Clif.  Are  these  thy  bears  ?  we  '11  bait  thy  bears 
to  death, 
And  manacle  the  bear-ward  in  their  chains, 
If  thou  dar'st  bring  them  to  the  baiting-place. 

Rich.  Oft  have  I  seen  a  hot  o'erweening  cur 
Run  back  and  bite,  because  he  was  withheld ; 
Who,  being  suft'er'd  with  the  bear's  fell  paw, 
Hath  clapp'd  his  tail  between  his  legs,  and  cry'd  ■ 
And  such  a  piece  of  service  will  you  do. 
If  you  oppose  yourselves  to  match  lord  Warwick. 

Clif    Hence,  heap  of  wrath,   foul    indigested 
lump. 
As  crooked  in  thy  manners  as  thy  shape  ! 

York.  Nay,  we  shall  heat  you  thoroughly  anon 

Clif.  Take  heed,  lest  by  your  heat  you  burn 
yourselves.       ^ 

K.  Hen.  Why,  Warwick,  hath  thy  knee  forgot 
to  bow  ? — 
Old  Salisbury, — shame  to  thy  silver  hair, 
Thou  mad  misleader  of  thy  brain-sick  son  ! — 
What,  wilt  thou  on  thy  death-bed  play  the  ruffian, 
And  seek  for  sorrow  with  thy  spectacles  ? 
0,  where  is  faith  ?  O,  where  is  loyalty  ? 
If  it  be  banish'd  from  the  frosty  head, 
Where  shall  it  find  a  harbour  in  the  earth  ? — 
y  943 


ACT  V. 


SECOND  PART  OF 


SCENE  n. 


Wilt  thou  go  dig  a  grave  to  find  out  war, 
And  shame  thine  honourable  age  with  blood  ? 
Why  art  thou  old,  and  want'st  experience  ? 
Or  wherefore  dost  abuse  it,  if  thoi  hast  it  ? 
For  shame !  in  duty  bend  thy  knee  to  me. 
That  bows  unto  the  grave  with  mickle  age. 

Sal.  My  lord,  I  have  consider'd  with  myself 
The  title  of  this  most  renowned  duke  ; 
And  in  my  conscience  do  repute  his  grace 
The  rightful  heir  to  England's  royal  seat. 

IT.  Hen.  Hast  thou  not  sworn  allegiance  unto 
me  ? 

Sal.  T  have. 

K.  Ben,  Canst  thou  dispense  with  heaven  for 
such  an  oath  ? 

Sal.  It  is  great  sin,  to  swear  unto  a  sin  ; 
But  greater  sin,  to  keep  a  sinful  oath. 
Wlio  can  be  bound  by  any  solemn  vow 
To  do  a  murderous  deed,  to  rob  a  man, 
To  force  a  spotless  virgin's  chastity, 
To  reave  the  orphan  of  his  patrimony. 
To  wring  the  widow  from  her  custom'd  right ; 
And  have  no  other  reason  for  this  wrong. 
But  that  he  was  bound  by  a  solemn  oath  ? 

Q.  Mar.  A  subtle  traitor  needs  no  sophister. 

K.  Hen.  Call  Buckingham,  and  bid  him  arm 
himself. 

York.  Call  Buckingham,  and   all  the  friends 
thou  hast, 
I  am  resolv'd  for  death,  or  dignity. 

Clif,  The  first,  I  warrant  thee,  if  dreams  prove 
true. 

War.  You  were  best  to  go  to  bed,  and  dream 
again, 
To  keep  thee  from  the  tempest  of  the  field. 

Clif.  I  am  resolv'd  to  bear  a  greater  storm, 
Than  any  thou  canst  conjure  up  to-day ; 
And  that  I  '11  write  upon  thy  burgonet. 
Might  I  but  know  thee  by  thy  household  badge. 

Wat'.  Now,  by  my  father's  badge,  old  Nevil's 
crest, 
The  rampant  bear  chain'd  to  the  ragged  stafi", 
This  day  I  '11  wear  aloft ^y  burgonet, 
(As  on  a  mountain-top  the  cedar  shows. 
That  keeps  his  leaves  in  spite  of  any  storm,) 
Even  to  afi"right  thee  with  the  view  thereof. 

Clif,  And  from  thy  burgonet  I  '11   rend   thy 
bear. 
And  tread  it  under  foot  with  all  contempt, 
Despite  the  bear-ward  that  protects  the  bear. 

Y.  Clif.  And  80  to  arms,  victorious  father, 
Co  quell  the  rebels,  and  their  'complices. 
944 


Hick,  Fye  !  charity,  for  shame !  speak  not  in 

spite, 
For  you  shall  sup  with  Jesu  Christ  to-night. 
Y.  Clif.  Foul  stigmatic,  that 's  more  than  thou 

canst  tell. 
Hich.  If  not  in  heaven,  you  '11  surely  sup  in 

hell.  [^Bxeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II.— Saint  Albans. 
Alarums :  Excursions.     Unter  Warwick. 

War.    Clifford  of  Cumberland,  't  is  Warwick 
calls  ! 
And  if  thou  dost  not  hide  thee  from  the  bear. 
Now, — when  the  angry  trumpet  sounds  alarm. 
And  dead  men's  cries  do  fill  the  empty  air, — 
Clifibrd,  I  say,  come  forth  and  fight  with  me ! 
Proud  northern  lord,  Clifi'ord  of  Cumberland, 
Warwick  is  hoarse  with  calling  thee  to  arms. 

Enter  York. 

How  now,  my  noble  lord  ?  what,  all  a-foot  ? 
York.   The  deadly-handed   Clifibrd   slew   ray 
steed. 
But  match  to  match  I  have  encounter'd  him. 
And  made  a  prey  for  carrion  kites  and  crows 
Even  of  the  bonny  be^st  he  lov'd  so  well. 

Enter  Clifford. 

War.  Of  one  or  both  of  us  the  time  is  come. 
York.  Hold,  "Warwick,   seek  thee   out   some 
other  chase, 
For  I  myself  must  hunt  this  deer  to  death. 

War.  Then,  nobly,  York ;    't  is  for  a  crown 
thou  fight's t. — 
As  I  intend,  Clifford,  to  thrive  to-day. 
It  grieves  my  soul  to  leave  thee  unassail'd. 

[Exit  War. 
Clif.  What  seest  thou  in  me,  York  ?  why  dost 

thou  pause  ? 
York.  With  thy  brave  bearing  should  I  be  in 
love. 
But  that  thou  art  so  fast  mine  enemy. 

Clif  Nor  should  thy  prowess  want  praise  and 
esteem, 
But  that 't  is  shown  ignobly,  and  in  treason. 

York.  So  let  it  help  me  now  against  thy  sword, 
As  I  in  justice  and  true  right  express  it  1 

Clif.  My  soul  and  body  on  the  action  both ! — 

York.  A  dreadful  lay  !^ — address  thee  instantly. 

[They  fight,  and  Clif.  falls. 

Clif.  La  fin  cour  nne  les  onuvres.  [Biea.* 


*CT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SJXTE 


BCENE    III. 


York.  Thus  war  hath   given  thee  peace,  for 
thou  art  still. 
Peace  with  his  soul,  heaven,  if  it  be  thy  will ! 

[Exit. 

Enter  young  Clifford. 

Y.  Clif.  Shame  and  confusion!   all  is  on  the 
rout; 
Fear  frames  disorder,  and  disorder  wounds 
Where  it  should  guard.      0   war,  thou  son   of 

hell. 
Whom  angry  heavens  do  make  their  minister, 
Throw  in  the  frozen  bosoms  of  our  part 
Hot  coals  of  vengeance  ! — Let  no  soldier  fly : 
He  that  is  truly  dedicate  to  war, 
Hath  no  self-love ;  nor  he,  that  loves  himself, 
Hath  not  essentially,  but  by  circumstance, 
riio  *  ame  of  valour. — 0,  let  the  vile  world  end, 

[Seeing  his  dead  Father. 
And  the  premised  flamas  of  the  last  day 
Knit  earth  and  heaven  together ! 
Now  let  the  general  trumpet  blow  his  blast, 
Particularities  and  petty  sounds 
To  cease ! — Wast  thou  ordain'd,  dear  father, 
To  lose  thy  youth  in  peace,  and  to  achieve 
The  silver  livery  of  advised  age  ; 
And,  in  thy  reverence,  and  thy  chair-days,  thus 
To  die  in  ruffian  battle  ? — Even  at  this  sight, 
My  heart   is   turn'd   to   stone :    and,   while  't  is 

mine. 
It  shall  be  stony.     York  not  our  old  men  spares ; 
No  more  will  I  their  babes  :  tears  virginal 
Shall  be  to  me  even  as  the  dew  to  fire ; 
And  beauty,  that  the  tyrant  oft  reclaims. 
Shall  to  ray  flaming  wrath  be  oil  and  flax. 
Henceforth,  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  pity : 
Meet  I  an  infant  of  the  house  of  York, 
Into  as  many  gobbets  will  I  cut  it. 
As  wild  Medea  young  Absyrtus  did  :^' 
In  cruelty  will  I  seek  out  my  fame. 
Come,  thou  new  ruin  of  old  Clifford's  house ; 

[Taking  up  the  Body. 
As  did  -i^neas  old  Anchises  bear. 
So  bear  I  thee  upon  my  manly  shoulders ; 
But  then  JEneas  bare  a  living  load. 
Nothing  so  heavy  as  these  woes  of  mine.      [Exit. 

Enter  Richard  Plantagenet  and  Somerset 
fighting,  and  Somerset  is  killed. 

Rich.  So,  lie  thou  there  ; — 
For,  iindenieath  an  alehouse'  paltry  sign, 
The  Castlo  in  Saint  Albans,  Somerset 


Hath  made  the  wizard  famous  in  his  death. — • 
Sword,  hold  thy  temper  ;  heart,  be  wrathful  still  • 
Priests  pray  for  enemies,  but  princes  kill.     [Exit. 

Alarums :   Excursions.      Enter  King  Henry, 
Queen  Margaret,  and  others,  retreating. 

Q.  Mar.  Away,  my  lord  I   you  are  slow ;   for 

shame,  away  1 
K.  Hen.  Can  we  outrun  the  heavens  ?   good 

Margaret,  stay. 
Q.  Mar.  What  are  you  made  of  ?  you  '11  not 
fight,  nor  fly  : 
Now  is  it  manhood,  wisdom,  and  defence. 
To  give  the  enemy  way  ;  and  to  secure  us 
By  what  we  can,  which  can  no  more  but  fly. 

[Alarum  afar  off 
If  you  be  ta'en,  we  then  should  see  the  bottom 
Of  all  our  fortunes  :  but  if  we  haply  scape, 
(As  vvell  we  may,  if  not  through  your  neglect,) 
We  shall  to  London  get ;  where  you  are  lov'd  : 
And   where   this    breach,  now   in    our   fortuciJ 

made. 
May  readily  be  stopp'd. 

Enter  young  Clifford. 

Y.  Clif.  But  that  my  heart  's  on  future  n-"  »- 
chief  set, 
I  would  speak  blasphemy  ere  bid  you  fly ; 
But  fly  you  must  \  uncurable  discomfit 
Reigns  in  the  hearts  of  all  our  present  friends 
Away,  for  your  relief !  and  we  will  live 
To  see  their  day,  and  them  our  fortune  give '. 
Away  my  lord,  away  I  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  l\l.— Fields  near  Saint  Albans. 

Alarum  :  JRetreat.  Flourish  ;  then  enter  York, 
Richard  Platttagenet,  Warwick,  and  Sol- 
diers, with  Drum  and  Colours. 

York.  Old  Salisbury,  who  can  report  of  him  ; 
That  winter  lion,  who,  in  rage,  forgets 
Aged  contusions  and  all  brush  of  time ; 
And,  like  a  gallant  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
Repairs  him  with  occasion  ?  this  happy  day 
Is  not  itself,  nor  have  we  won  one  foot, 
If  Salisbury  be  lost. 

Rich.  My  noble  fath«.. 

Three  times  to-day  I  holp  him  to  his  horse, 
Three  times  bestrid  him,  thrice  I  led  him  off, 
Persuaded  him  from  any  further  act : 
But  still,  where  danger  was,  still  there  I  met  him 
And  like  rich  hangings  in  a  homely  house, 

945 


ACT  V. 


SECOND  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


8CBNK    III. 


So  was  his  will  in  his  old  feeble  body. 
But,  noble  as  he  is,  look  where  he  comes. 

Enter  Salisbury. 

Sal.  Now,  by  my  sword,  well  hast  thou  fought 
to-day ; 
By  the  mass,  so  did  we  all. — I  thank  you,  Rich- 
ard: 
God  knows  how  long  it  is  I  have  to  live  ; 
And  it  hath  pleas'd  him,  that  three  times  to-day 
You  have  defended  me  from  imminent  death. — 
Well,  lords,  we  have  not  got  that  which  we  have : 
•T 18  not  enough  our  foes  are  this  time  fled, 


Being  opposites  of  such  repairing  nature." 

York.  I  know  our  safety  is  to  follow  them ; 
For,  as  I  hear,  the  king  is  fled  to  London, 
To  call  a  present  court  of  parliament." 
Let  us  pursue  him,  ere  the  writs  go  forth : — 
What  says  lord  Warwick  ?  shall  we  after  them  ? 
War.  After  them !  nay,  before  them,  if  we  caa 
Now,  by  my  faith,  lords,  't  was  a  glorious  day  ; 
Saint  Albans'  battle  won  by  famous  York, 
Shall  be  eterniz'd  in  all  age  to  come. — 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets ; — and   to  London 

all: 
And  more  such  days  as  those  to  us  befall !  \Exmn* 


NOTES  TO  Mm  HEMY  THE  SIXTH. 


(PART   THE   SECOND.) 


'  Mtnie  alder-lie/est  sovereign. 
Alder-lk/est  is  a  corruption  of  the  German  word  alder- 
lifhste,  beloved  above  all  things ;  dearest  of  all.  It  appears 
lo  have  been  adopted  in  the  English  language,  as  it  is 
nmd  in  Chancer,  Marston,  and  others.  Thus,  in  Mars- 
'm  — 

Pretty  sweetheart  of  mine  alder-liefest  affection. 

Again,  in  Gascoigne : — 

And  to  mine  alder-lievest  lord  I  must  indite. 

'  And  all  the  wealthy  kingdoms  of  the  west. 
Probably  Shakespeare  wrote  of  the  east. 

»  And,  brother  York,  thy  acts  in  Ireland, 
In  bringing  them  to  civil  discipline. 

This  is  an  anachronism.  The  present  scene  is  in  1445  ; 
but  Eichard  Duke  of  York  was  not  viceroy  of  Ireland  till 
1449. 

♦  As  did  the  fatal  brand  Althea  hurn''d, 
Unto  the  prince'' B  heart  of  Calydon. 

The  prince  of  Calydon  was  Meleager,  a  celebrated  hero 
of  antiquity,  son  of  ^neas,  king  of  JEtolia,  by  Althea, 
daughter  of  Thestius.  The  Parcsa  (i.  e.,  the  Fates)  were 
present  at  his  birth.  Clotho  said  that  lie  would  be  brave 
and  courageous ;  Lachesis  foretold  his  uncommon  strength ; 
and  Atropos  declared  that  he  should  live  so  long  as  a 
brand  then  on  the  fire  remained  unconsumed.  The  mother 
immediately  snatched  the  log  from  the  flames,  and  pre- 
served it  with  the  most  jealous  care.  Meleager  destroyed 
the  famous  wild  boar  which  Diana  had  sent  to  punish 
the  people  of  Calydon  by  laying  waste  the  country ; 
this  monster,  from  its  enormous  size  and  fierceness,  was 
the  terror  of  the  entire  land  ;  and  many  princes  and  chiefs 
assembled,  each  anxious  to  obtain  the  honour  of  killing 
it.  Meleager  having  at  length  slain  both  his  uncles  in  a 
quarrel,  his  mother,  Althea,  in  a  fit  of  grief  and  passion, 
threw  the  fatal  log  into  the  fire,  and  he  died  as  soon  as  it 
was  consumed.  Althea  was  afcerwards  so  grieved  at  her 
rash  act,  that  she  committed  suicide  in  a  paroxysm  of  de- 
^3aii . 

*  Sir  John. 

bir,  was  a  title  commonly  bestowed  on  the  clergy ;  it  is 
the  designation  of  a  bachelor  of  arts  in  the  Universities  of 


Cambridge  and  Dublin,  but  is  there  always  annexed-  not 
to  the  christian  name,  but  to  the  surname.  In  coise- 
quence  of  this,  howcTer,  all  the  inferior  clergy  in  Eng  and 
were  distinguished  by  this  title  afiixed  to  their  christian 
names  for  many  centuries.  Thus  we  have  Sir  Hugh,  in 
The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  ;  Sir  Topas,  in  Twelfth  Night , 
Sir  Oliver,  in  As  Yotc  Like  It,  &c. 

«  A  crafty  knave  does  need  no  broker. 
This  is  a  proverbial  sentence.    See  Eay's  Collection. 

'  We  inay  deliver  oxtr  supplications  in  tlie  quill. 

Probably  this  means  our  penned  or  written  suppiioa- 
tions,  as  we  now  say  a  drawing  in  chalk,  when  we  mean  a 
drawing  executed  by  the  aid  of  chalk.  Mr.  Toilet,  how- 
ever, thinks  that  in  the  quill  may  mean,  with  great  exact- 
ness and  observance  of  form,  or  with  the  utmost  punc- 
tilio of  ceremony.  The  phrase,  he  thinks,  was  suggested 
by  the  quilted  ruffs  worn  by  our  ancestors,  and  which  were 
kept  scrupulously  neat,  so  that  it  might  have  become  usuaJ 
to  say  a  thing  was  in  the  quill,  when  it  was  exact  and  cere- 
monious. 

8  Though  in  this  place  most  master  wear  no  breeches. 

As  it  stands,  this  line  has  no  sense.  I  have  no  doubt 
we  should  read, — must  master,  &c. ;  i.  e.,  though  the  mas- 
ter of  this  place  has  no  authority,  yet  the  mistress  of  it 
shall  not  insult  me  with  impunity. 

"  For  flying  at  the  brook 

Flying  at  tlie  broolc  is  the  falconer's  term  for  hawking 
at  water- fowl.  Mr.  Steevens  tells  us  "  that  the  terms  belong- 
ing to  this  once  popular  amusement  were  in  general  set- 
tled with  the  utmost  precision ;  and  I  may  at  least  venture 
to  declare,  that  a  mistress  might  have  been  kept  at  a 
cheaper  rate  than  a  falcon.  To  compound  a  medicine  to 
cure  one  of  these  birds  of  worms,  it  was  necessary  to  de- 
stroy no  fewer  animals  than  a  lamb,  a  culver,  a  pi</co-n,  a 
buck,  and  a  cat.  I  have  tliis  intelligence  from  the  Book^  of 
Ilaukinge,  &c.,  v.  1,  no  date.  This  work  was  written  by 
D:ime  Julyana  Bernes,  prioress  of  the  nunnery  of  Sopwell 
near  St.  Albans  (where  Shakespeare  has  fixed  the  present 
scene),  and  one  of  the  editions  of  it  was  Prynted  at  West- 
mestre  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde,  1496,  together  with  an  addi- 
tional treatise  on  fishing." 

947 


NOTES  TO  THE  SECOND  PART  OF 


1"  A  miracle. 

Mr.  Malone  tells  us  that  "  this  scene  is  founded  on  a 
story  wliich  Sir  Thomas  More  has  related,  and  which  he 
says  was  communicated  to  him  by  his  father.  The  im- 
postor's name  is  not  mentioned,  but  he  was  detected  by 
Humphrey  Duke  of  Gloster,  and  in  the  manner  here  repre- 
sented." 

»  But  you  have  done  more  miracles  than  I; 

You  made,  in  a  day,  m,y  lord,  whole  towns  to  fly. 
This  is  a  satirical  allusion  to  S  ifFolk's  abandonment 
of  Maine  and  Anjou  to  Eeignier,  the  father  of  Queen  Mar- 
garet. 

"  Lords.,  let  Mm  go. 

Let  him  pass  out  of  your  thoughts.  The  duke  had  al- 
ready left  the  stage. 

13 1  never  saw  a  fellow  worse  bested. 

So  deserted  by  his  faculties,  or  in  a  less  fit  condition  to 
cope  with  an  adversary. 

1*  Here  '«  a  cwp  of  charneco. 

Charneco  is  a  sort  of  sweet  wine  named  from  a  village 
near  Lisbon,  where  it  is  made. 

'*  Go,  tahe  hence  that  traitor  from  our  sight ; 
For,  by  his  death,  we  do  perceive  his  guilt. 

According  to  the  laws  of  these  duels,  the  party  who  was 
defeated  or  slain  was  adjudged  guilty  of  the  crime  imputed 
to  him,  and  if  not  killed  in  the  lists,  was  taken  out  of  it  and 
hanged  or  beheaded.  Indeed,  the  dead  body  of  the  van- 
quished was  equally  condemned  to  the  punishment  of  a 
convicted  traitor,  in  order  that  his  posterity  might  partici- 
pate in  his  infamy.  The  real  names  of  the  combatants  on 
this  occasion  were,  William  Catour,  the  armourer,  and  John 
Davy,  his  apprentice.  The  expenses  attending  this  engage- 
ment have  been  preserved,  and  amounted  to  £10  18*.  96?. 
One  of  the  items  in  the  account  is,  "  also  paid  for  1  pole 
and  nayllis,  and  for  settyng  up  of  ye  said  mannys  hed  on 
London  Brigge.  v."!-" 

>»  ZFneath. 

That  is,  not  easily.  Eath  is  the  ancient  word  for  ease  or 
easy.    Thus,  in  Spenser's  Fairy  Queen,  B.  iv.  c.  6 : — 

More  eath  was  new  impression  to  receive. 

"  Caper  upright,  like  a  wild  Morisco, 

Morisco  is  probably  a  term  applied  to  any  morris-dancer, 
though  Dr.  Johnson  thinks  it  means  a  country  fellow 
dressed  as  a  Moor  in  these  rustic  dances. 

'8  Rear  uf  his  body  ;  toring  Aw/t  by  the  nose. 
As  neither  Somerset  nor  the  Oardinal  speak  again  during 
this  scene,  and  as  nothing  occurs  to  show  that  they  con- 
tinue in  the  presence  of  their  sovereign,  we  must  presume 
that  they  take  advantage  of  Plenry's  fainting  to  slip  away 
unnoticed.  The  next  that  we  hear  of  the  Cardinal  is,  that 
he  is  at  the  point  of  death. 

i»  Would  curses  kiU,  as  doth  the  mandrake's  groan. 

This  line  alludes  to  a  superstition  respecting  the  man- 
drake, which  is  thus  related  in  BuUeiae's  Jiulwarke  of 
948 


Defence  against  Sickness,  (&e.,  1579: — "They  do  aflyrme 
that  this  herbe  commeth  of  the  seede  of  some  convicted 
dead  men ;  and  also  without  the  death  of  some  lyvinge 
thinge  it  cannot  be  drawen  out  of  the  earth  to  man's  use 
Therefore  they  did  tye  some  dogge  or  other  lyvinge  beast 
unto  the  roote  thereof  wyth  a  corde,  and  digged  the  earth 
in  compasse  round  about,  and  in  the  meane  tyme  stoppe(f 
their  own  eares  for  feare  of  the  terrible  shriek  and  cry  o1 
this  mandrack.  In  whych  cry  it  doth  not  only  dye  itselfe, 
but  the  feare  thereof  kylleth  the  dogge  or  beast  wliich 
pulleth  it  out  of  the  earth." 

"0 1  HI  have  an  Iris  that  shall  find  thee  out. 

Iris  was  a  messenj-er  of  the  gods,  but  more  particularly 
of  Juno.  She  is  identical  with  the  rainbow,  and  is  reijre- 
sented  with  wings  possessing  all  its  variegated  and  beauti- 
ful colours.  She  had  also  other  offices,  onr  ?f  which  was 
to  cut  the  thread  which  seemed  to  detain  the  soul  in  the 
body  of  those  that  were  dying,  and  the  other  to  t-upp)  to't 
clouds  with  water,  that  they  might  refresh  the  earth. 

21  If  tJiou  be'st  death,  I  HI  give  thee  England/ s  treasw    <&c. 

This  passage  was  suggested  by  the  following  ac-oo.  t  ot 
the  death  of  the  cardinal  in  Hall's  Chrvnic^x. . — "  I)i:rirg 
these  doynges,  Henry  Beaufford,  byshop  of  Winclrp-te 
and  called  the  riche  Cardyiiall,  departed  out  of  this  woride. 
This  man  was  haut  in  stomach  and  hygh  in  countenance, 
ryche  above  measure  of  all  men,  and  to  fewe  liberal;  dis- 
duynful  to  his  kynne,  and  dreadful  to  his  lovers.  Hi> 
covetous  insaciable  and  hope  of  long  lyfe  made  hym  botliu 
to  forget  God,  his  prynce,  and  himselfo,  in  his  latter  dayes ; 
for  Doctor  John  Baker,  his  pry  vie  counsailerand  his  chapel- 
layn,  wrote,  that  lying  on  his  death-bed,  he  said  these 
words  : — '  Why  should  I  dye,  having  so  muche  riclies  ?  If 
the  whole  reahne  would  save  my  life,  I  am  able  either  by 
pollicie  to  get  it,  or  by  ryches  to  bye  it.  Fye,  v.fill  not  deatli 
be  hyred,  nor  will  money  do  uothynge  ?  When  my  nephew 
of  Bedford  died,  I  thought  myselfe  halfe  up  the  whelo, 
but  when  I  sawe  myne  other  nephew  of  Gloucester  dis- 
ceased,  then  I  thought  myselfe  able  to  be  equal  with 
kinges,  and  so  thought  to  increase  my  treasure  in  hope 
to  have  worne  a  trypple  croune.  But  I  se  nowe  the  woride 
fayleth  me,  and  so  1  am  deceyved  ;  praying  you  all  to  prav 
for  me.'  " 


*»  To  affy,  i.  e.,  to  betroth  in  marriage. 

'3  He  can  m/ike  obligations,  i.  e.,  write  bonds. 


!>*  As  for  these  silken-coated  slaves,  I  pass  not. 

That  is,  I  pay  them  no  regard.    So,  in  Drayton's  Quett 
of  Cynthia — 

Transform  me  to  what  shape  you  can, 
I  pass  not  what  it  be. 


2"  The  Lent  shall  be  as  long  again  as  it  is,  and  thou  shall  have 
a  licence  to  kill  for  a  hundred  lacking  one. 

Butchers  wore  formerly  not  permitted  to  sell  moat  dur- 
ing Lent;  some,  however,  had  the  interest  to  obtain  a 
special  licence  to  kill  a  certain  number  per  week  in  con- 
sideration of  the  sick  and  feeble ;  a  monopoly  that  was 
doubtless  highly  profitable  to  them. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


2«  This  monument  of  the  victory  will  Hear. 

He  alludes  to  Stafford's  armour,  wliieh  he  stript  from 
•'le  body  and  put  upon  himself,  and  thus  arrayed  returned 
to  London. 

"  Queen  Margaret^  mourning  over  SuffoWs  head. 
The  old  play  led  Shakespeare  into  this  disgusting  and 
unnatural  incident ;  a  queen  with  the  head  of  her  mur- 
dered paramour  hid  in  her  bosom  in  the  presence  of  her 
husband. 

'*  But^  first,  go  and  set  London-bridge  on  fire. 
At  that  time  London-bridge  was  made  chiefly  of  wood  ; 
the  houses  upon  it  were  burnt  in  this  rebellion,  and  many 
of  the  inhabitants  perished. 

M  Matthew  Gough  is  slain. 
According  to  Holinshed,  Gough  was   "  a  man  of  great 
wit  and  much  experience  in  feats  of  chivalrie,  the  which 
in  continuall  warres  had  spent  his  time  in  serving  of  the 
king  and  his  father." 

»«  Re  (hat  made  its  pay  one  and  twenty  fifteens. 
A.  fifteenth  was  the  fifteenth  part  of  all  the  movables  or 
personal  property  of  each  subject. 

"  Ah,  thou  say,  tlwu  serge,  -nay,  thou  buckram  lord! 

Cade  is  quibbling  upon  the  name  of  the  unfortunate 
nobleman,  say  being  an  old  term  for  silk ;  on  this  depends 
the  series  of  degradation,  from  say  to  serge,  from  serge  to 
buckram. 

32  And  because  they  could  not  read  thou  hast  hanged  them. 
That  is,  they  were  hanged  for  their  offences  because  they 
:ould  not  claim  the  benefit  of  clergy. 

33  Thou  dost  ride  on  afoot-cloth. 

Afoot-cloth  was  a  kind  of  robe  which  covered  the  horse 
and  reached  almost  to  the  ground.  It  was  frequently  made 
of  velvet,  and  trimmed  with  gold. 

**  When  have  I  aught  exacted  at  your  hands, 
Kent  to  maintain,  the  king,  t}t4  realm,  and  you  f 

Dr.  Johnson  would  read  but  to  maintain ;  the  word  Kent 
he  thinks  has  crept  into  the  text  by  a  mistake  of  the  printers ; 
as  the  passage  stands,  Lord  Say  implies  that  the  men  of 
Kent  have  been  altogether  exempt  frcm  taxes,  which  is 
evidently  not  his  meaning.  This  alteration  makes  the  line 
clear  and  intelligible. 

"  When  shall  we  go  to  Oheapside,  and  take  top  commodities 
upon  our  bills  f 
This  is  an  equivoque   alluding  to  the  brown   bills,  or 
halberds,  with  which  the  commons  were  anciently  armed, 
and  to  a  written  paper  representing  money. 

so  No  sooner  was  I  crept  out  of  my  cradle. 
But  I  was  made  a  king,  at  nine  months  old. 

This  is  correct,  and  yet  in  the  First  Part  of  Henry  the 
Sixth,  Act  iii.,  so.  4,  Henry  is  made  to  remark — 

I  do  remember  how  my  father  said, 

»rhi«ih  some  critics  think  to  be  a  conclusive  proof  that  the 


whole  of  that  play  was  not  written  by  the  same  author  aa 
this.  But  as  an  argument  this  is  worth  nothing,  for  Shakes- 
peare has  frequently  fallen  into  similar  inconsistencies,  by 
sometimes  adhering  to  and  sometimes  departing  from  the 
old  dramas  which  he  selected  to  build  his  own  upon. 

"  Many  a  time,  but  for  a  sallet,  my  brain-pan  had  been  ckfi 
with  a  brown  bill. 

Sallet  was  a  common  name  for  a  helmet ;  thus  in  Sir 
Thomas  North's  translation  of  Plutarch — "  One  of  the 
company  seeing  Brutus  athirst  also,  he  ran  to  the  river  for 
water,  and  brought  it  in  his  sallet.^''  Again,  in  The  longer 
thou  livest  the  more  Fool  thou  art,  1570 — 

This  will  beare  away  a  good  rappe. 
As  good  as  a  sallet  to  me  verilie. 


38  Call  hither  to  the  stake  my  two  brave  bears. 

That  is,  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  his  father,  the  Earl  of 
Salisbury ;  a  bear  and  ragged  staff",  were  the  arms  of  thoir 
family. 


3»  A  dreadful  lay,  i.  e.,  a  fearful  wager. 


«>  Dies. 


Cifford  did  not  fall  by  the  hand  of  York  ;  his  death  is 
correctly  described  in  the  first  scene  of  the  Third  part  ol 
Henry  the  Sixth,  where  it  is  stated  that  he  fell  by  the  swords 
of  the  comtnon  soldiers  while  charging  the  adverse  ranks. 
Shakespeare  not  unfrequently  departs  from  the  truth  of 
history  to  render  his  characters  more  considerable. 

•«*  As  wild  Medea  young  Absyrtus  did. 

Medea  was  a  celebrated  enchantress,  and  the  daughter  of 
Jietes,  king  of  Cololiis.  Having  become  enamoured  of 
Jason,  she  assisted  him  in  obtaining  the  golden  fleece,  and 
fled  with  him  to  Greece.  To  stop  the  pursuit  of  her  father, 
she  killed  and  cut  in  pieces  her  brotlier  Absyrtus,  and  left 
his  mangled  limbs  in  the  way  through  which  his  father 
must  pass.  This  savage  act  has  by  some  been  attributed 
to  Jason,  and  not  to  her. 

"  Being  opposites  of  such  repairing  nature. 

That  is,  being  enemies  not  likely  to  be  utterly  defeated 
by  this  action,  likely  soon  to  rally  and  recover  themselves. 
Shakespeare  often  uses  the  word  repair  in  the  sense  of 
renovate. 

*'  For,  as  I  hear,  the  king  is  fled  to  London, 
To  call  a  present  court  of  parliament. 

York  could  not  have  heard  this,  as  Henry  had  but  just 
left  the  stage  to  fly  to  London,  and  had  not  said  a  word  of 
calling  a  parliament.  In  the  old  play  the  king  does  say  he 
will  call  a  parliament,  but  Shakespeare  has  omitted  the 
line,  and  then  afterwards  forgetfully  alludes  to  it.  It  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  the  poet  wrote  these  plays  only 
to  be  acted,  and  in  representation  such  errors  could  not 
readily  be  detected ;  had  he  corrected  the  press  himself, 
he  would  have  erased  this  and  similar  inconsistencies. 
They  were  doubtless  produced  hastily,  and  the  activity  of 
his  subseouent  life  probably  prevented  a  return  to  them. 

949 


THIRD  PART   OF 


ling  Ifiiri}  tijf  |)iitji. 


^rHIS  tragedy  includes  a  period  of  sixteen  years,  commencing  immediately  after  the  first  battle  ol 
St.  Albans,  on  May  23rd,  1455,  and  closing  with  the  murder  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  and  the  birth  of 
Prince  Edward,  in  1471.  In  this  division  of  his  triune  play,  though  Shakespeare  certainly  inclines  to 
the  Lancastrian  interest,  yet  he  does  not  greatly  exhibit  his  disgust  at  the  turbulence  and  treachery  of 
the  York  faction.  Every  scene  is  filled  with  deeds  of  violence  and  murder  ;  the  story  grows  darker 
and  more  dark  towards  its  close,  and  the  crimes  of  the  Yorkists  are  at  length  consummated  by  the 
murder  of  a  pious  and  well-meaning  king ;  yet  the  poet  utters  no  condemnation  of  the  promoters  of 
this  reign  of  terror,  and  the  play  terminates  with  Edward's  triumph,  and  a  picture  of  his  domestic 
felicity.     Shakespeare,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  does  not — 

"  Assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men." 

Edward  gains  power  by  treachery,  lives  in  luxury,  and  dies  in  peace  ;  no  poetical  justice  overtakes 
him,  but  the  thunderbolt  descends  upon  his  children,  who  perish  miserably  by  the  murderous  devices 
of  their  uncle  Richard. 

The  reckless  perjury  of  Edward  is  early  shown  in  this  play  ;  in  persuading  his  father  to  claitr 
t'le  crown,  he  exclaims — 

But,  for  a  kingdom,  any  oath  may  be  broken : 
I  'd  break  a  thousand  oaths,  to  reign  one  year. 

Sunk  and  degraded  indeed  must  be  that  father  whom  his  son  could  think  of  thus  addressing ;  suet 
unblushing  depravity  is  evidence  of  a  very  corrupt  nature.  It  is  difficult  to  say  which  is  most  offe:. 
sive,  the  open  recommendation  of  perjury  by  Edward,  or  the  subtilty  of  Richard,  his  younger  brother 
who  urges  that  an  oath,  not  taken  before  a  lawful  magistrate,  cannot  be  binding.  It  is  but  proper  to 
say  that  Richard  was  but  eight  years  old  at  this  period,  and  the  part  which  he  is  made  to  play  con- 
sequently proceeds  entirely  from  the  imagination  of  the  poet. 

The  slaughter  of  young  Rutland,  though  a  barbarous  action,  may  still  admit  of  some  excuse 
when  we  consider  the  provocation  which  Clifibrd  has  received  ;  he  is  under  a  vow  to  revenge  his 
father's  death,  and  he  does  revenge  it  with  "  blood-thirsty  filial  love."  The  following  scene,  where 
Clifford  and  Queen  Margaret  take  York  prisoner,  and  after  mocking  and  torturing  him  by  placing  a 
crown  of  paper  upon  his  head,  and  presenting  him  with  a  handkerchief  stained  with  the  blood  of  his 
son,  despatch  him  with  their  daggers,  is  a  fearful  instance  of  the  insatiate  fury  of  party  stiife  and 
civil  war.  The  bitterness  of  Margaret's  character  is  here  fully  displayed  ;  she  seems  an  impersona- 
tion of  Ate,  revelling  in  butchery,  and  mad  for  blood,  her  eyes  glaring  with  the  intoxication  of  grati- 
fied vengeance.  But  we  are  not  greatly  touched  by  the  sufferings  of  York ;  his  ingratitude  ^nd 
perfidy  are  too  recent  to  permit  us  to  sympathize  with  him ;  we  remember  his  promise  of  eternal 
loyalty  and  obedience  to  Henry,  and  the  shameless  manner  in  which  he  has  broken  all  oaths  ana 
obligations,  and  we  cannot  grieve  at  his  punishment.  Savage  as  was  this  act  of  Margaret,  much  may 
b«  said  in  palliation  of  her  misdeeds ;  like  another  striking  creati  m  of  our  poet's  genius,  she  was 

961 


THIRD  FART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTR 


"  more  sinned  against  than  sinning;"  outrage  drives  her  from  a  woman  to  a  fury,  but  years  of  mis- 
fortune elevate  and  give  a  terrible  sublimity  to  her  character.  Now  she  is  impelled  onward  like  a 
hunted  and  infuriate  tigress  ;  but  as  vears  roll  on,  a  mystic  dignity  and  equivocal  inspiration  han^ 
around  the  character  of  Margaret  the  prophetess. 

Shakespeare  always  prepares  us  for  the  subsequent  deeds  of  any  of  his  characters,  though 
fur  some  time  they  may  be  not  much  engaged  in  the  action  of  the  drama.  Tims,  when  the  news 
of  the  duke  of  York's  death  is  brought  to  his  two  sons,  Edward  and  Richard,  the  first  shudder- 
ingly  bids  the  messenger  stop  short  in  his  tale — he  cannot  bear  the  relation  of  the  circumstances  of 
his  father's  death  ;  not  so  Richard, — he  too,  is  shocked  (for  Shakespeare  attributes  to  him  the  one 
virtue  of  filial  afi^ction),  but  his^ron  nature  is  enraged,  not  softened,  and  he  exclaims  to  the  man, 
"  Say  how  he  died,  for  I  will  hear  it  all."  In  the  third  act  Richard  reveals  his  character  to  the 
reader ;  he  unveils  his  innate  love  of  villany,  his  resolute  ambition  ;  he  revels  in  a  dream  of  antici- 
pated sovereignty^  and  familiarizes  his  mind  with  murder.  But  Richard's  nature  and  conduct  are 
easily  accounted  for  ;  sprung  from  a  strong-minded  but  treacherous  race,  he  had  been  educated  on 
the  field  of  battle,  and  early  familiarized  with  acts  of  cruelty  and  blood. 

It  is  in  this  drama  that  the  character  of  Henry  most  enlists  our  sympathy ;  in  the  two  previous 
plays  his  apathy  occasionally  provokes  our  anger,  but  here  we  become  convinced  of  his  incapacity, 
and  pity  him.  Peace  is  his  longing,  his  idol ;  at  any  price,  peace  :  and  to  all  sides  he  turns  a  yield- 
ing and  supplicating  aspect,  forgetful  that  peace  may  be  bought  too  dearly,  and  when  obtained,  be 
but  a  hollow  purchase  ;  forgetful  that  in  turbulent  times  the  best  mode  of  preventing  war  is  to  be 
prepared  for  it,  and  to  offer  the  olive  on  the  point  of  the  sword.  Men  respect  strength  and  decison, 
and  will  seldom  provoke  it ;  the  house  of  York  would  have  lived  tranquilly  enough  under  the  rule  of 
the  heroic  Henry  the  Fifth.  The  placid  character  of  his  son  is  finely  portrayed  when  lie  sits  upon  a 
hill  near  the  battle-field  of  Towton,  and  envies  the  condition  of  the  homely  shepherd,  who  is  never 
disturbed  by  ambition  or  regal  cares,  but  makes  the  welfare  of  his  flock  his  only  occupation.  "  Ah, 
what  a  life  were  this !  how  sweet !  how  lovely  !"  says  the  melancholy  monarch.  Here  his  meditations 
are  interrupted  by  the  horrors  of  civil  war  being  brought  home  to  his  sight;  a  son  enters,  dragging 
in  the  body  of  his  father,  whom  he  had  unknowingly  slain  in  the  heat  of  the  battle ;  full  of  joy  at 
his  tiiumph,  he  proceeds  to  rifle  the  corpse,  when  he  recognizes  the  being  who  had  given  him  life. 
Tlie  agony  and  remorse  attending  such  a  terrible  discovery,  are  painted  with  an  unflinching  pencil ; 
but  the  picture  of  terror  is  not  yet  complete.  A  father  enters  with  the  body  of  his  son,  whom  he 
had  also  killed  unknowingly,  in  the  fury  of  the  action ;  and  the  wretched  men  mingle  their  groans 
and  tears  with  those  of  their  unhappy  sovereign,  who  is  an  accidental  witness  of  the  misery  of  which 
he  is  an  innocent  cause. 

When  the  "  king-maker"  restores  the  deposed  Henry  to  the  crown,  the  humility  of  this  religious 
king  is  extremely  touching  ;  he  yields  the  real  burden  of  government  to  Warwick,  because  that  leader 
is  always  fortunate  in  his  deeds,  and  the  latter  chooses  for  his  associate  in  the  task,  his  son- in-law,  the 
duke  of  Clarence.  Henry  thus  resigns  his  claims,  and  offers  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  the  service 
of  heaven — 

I  make  you  both  protectors  of  this  land  ; 

While  I  myeelf  will  lead  a  private  life, 

And  in  devotion  spend  my  later  days, 

To  sin's  rebuke,  and  my  Creator's  praise. 

But  this  tranquillity  is  of  brief  duration  ;  the  waves  of  contention  are  but  lulled  for  a  moment,  and 
the  itorm  again  rages  with  all  its  former  fierceness.  Henry  is  a  second  time  seized  an<l  deposed  by 
Edward  ;  the  great  Warwick,  the  master-spirit  of  the  age,  is  slain  in  the  battle  at  Barnet ;  Queen 
Margaret  makes  one  last  attempt  to  regain  her  lost  power,  at  Tewkesbury,  where  her  friends  are  dis- 
persed, herself  and  son  taken  prisoners,  and  the  brave  young  prince  murdered  by  Edward  and  his 
triufhphant  associates.  Then  comes  the  gloomy  catastrophe  of  this  dark  history,  and  the  saintly 
Henry  is  murdered  in  the  Tower  by  the  fiendish  Richard.  The  power  of  contrast  can  scarcely  go 
further  than  in  this  scene ;  the  principles  of  peace,  piety,  humility,  and  affection,  are  opposed  to  those 
of  violence,  hypocrisy,  ambition,  and  hatred., 
902 


pekso:n's  kepresented. 


King  Henry  the  Sixth. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  11.  bc.  2 ;  so.  5.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 
Act  IV.  sc  6 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  6. 

Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  his  Son. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  2;  sc.  5.    Act  III.  sc.  3. 

Act  V.  sc.  4 ;  sc.  5. 

Lewis  the  Eleventh,  King  of  France. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  3. 

Duke  of  Somerset,  of  King  Henry's  Party. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  6.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ; 
sc.  2;  BC.  4;  sc.  5. 

Duke  of  Exeter,  of  King  Henry's  Party. 
Ajipears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  5.    Act  IV.  sc.  8. 

Earl  of  Oxford,  of  King  Henry's  Party. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  6 ;  sc,  8.    Act  V. 

sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4 ,  sc.  5. 

Earl    of    Northumberland,    of  King   Henry's 
Party. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  2. 

Earl  of  Westmoreland,  o/" King  Henry's  Party. 
Appears,  Aot  I.  sc.  1. 

Loud  Clifford,  o/'King  Henry's  Party. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  6. 

Klchard  Plantagenet,  Duke  of  Yo\k. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  se.  4. 

Edward,  his  Son,  Earl  ©/"March,  afterwards  King 

Edward  the  Fourth. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1;  sc.  2;  sc.  3; 

sc.  6.    Act  III.  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3 ;  sc.  5  ;  sc.  7 ; 

sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  so.  3 ;  sc.  4 ;  so.  5. 

Edmund,  Son  to  the  Dake  of  York,  and  Earl  of 

Rutland. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3. 

George,  Son  to  the  Duke  of  York,  and  after- 
wards Duke  of  Clarence. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  6.    Act  III.  sc.  2.    Act  IV. 

sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  80.  3 ;  sc.  6 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4 ; 

8C.  5 ;  sc.  7. 

Richard,  Son  to  the  Duke  of  York,  and  after- 
wards Duke  of  Gloucester. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  se.  2.   Act  II.  sc  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8 ;  sc  4. 

sc.  6.    Act  III.  sc  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  5 ;  sc.  7 ; 

sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc  5 ;  so.  6 ;  sc.  7. 

Duke  of  Norfolk,  of  the  Duke  of  York's  Party. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc  1.    Act  II.  sc.  2. 

Marquis  of  Montague,  of  the  Duke  of  York's 

Party. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc  2  ;  sc.  6.     Act  IV. 

sc.  1 ;  sc.  6 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc  1 

120 


Earl  of  Warwick,  of  the  Duke  of  York's  Party. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.  Act  II.  sc.  1;  sc.  2;  sc.  8;  nc  4; 
sc.  6.  Act  III.  sc.  3.  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc  6 ;  sc.  8. 
Act  V^.  sc.  1 ;  sc  2. 

Lord  Hastings,  of  the  Duke  of  York's  Party. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  5 ;  sc.  7.    Act  V.  so.  7. 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  )    of  the  Duke  of  York's 
Lord  Stafford,        )  Party. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  sc  1. 

Sir  John  Mortimer,    |     Uncles  to  the  Duke  of 
Sir  Hugh  Mortimer,  \  York. 

Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  2. 

Henry,  Earl  q/"  Richmond,  a  Youth. 

Appeal's,  Act  IV.  sc  6. 

Lord  Rivers,  Brother  to  Lady  Grey. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  4. 
Sir  William  Stanley. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  5. 

Sir  John  Montgomery. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  7. 

Sir  John  Somerville. 

Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Tutor  to  Rutland. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3. 

Mayor  of  York. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc  7. 

Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  6.    Act  V.  sc.  6. 

A  Nobleman. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc  2. 

Two  Keepers. 
Appear,  Act  III.  sc.  1. 

A  Huntsman. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  5. 

A  Son  that  has  killed  his  Father. 

A  Father  that  has  killed  his  Son. 

Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  5. ' 

Three  Watchmen. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  sc.  3. 

Queen  Margaret. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc  5.    Act  III 

80.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  4 ;  sc.  5. 

Lady  Grey,  afterwards  Queen  to  Edward  the 

Fourth. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.   Act  V.  sc  7, 

Bona,  Sister  to  the  French  King. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  3. 

Soldiers,  and  other  Attendants  on  King  Henry 

and  King  Edward,  Messengers,  <ftc. 

SCENE, — Duving^yartofthe  Third  Act  inFRASCK] 
during  all  th£  rest  of  the  play  in  England. 

968 


THIRD    PART    OP 


ling  'Utmi]  tlje  lixtji. 


ACT    I 


SCENE  J. — London.     The  Parliament- House. 

Drums,  Some  Soldiers  of  York's  party  break  in. 
Then,  Enter  the  Duke  of  York,  Edward, 
Richard,  Norfolk,  Montague,  Warwick, 
and  Others,  with  White  Roses  in  their  Hats. 

War.  I    wonder    how    the   king   escap'd    our 

hands. 
York.  While  we  pursu'd  the  horsemen  of  the 
north. 
He  shly  stole  away,  and  left  his  men  : 
Whereat  the  great  lord  of  Northumberland, 
Whose  warlike  ears  could  never  brook  retreat, 
Cheer'd  up  the  drooping  army  ;  and  himself, 
Lord  Clifford,  and  lord  Stafford,  all  a-breast, 
Charg'd  our  main  battle's  front,  and,  breaking  in, 
Were  by  the  swords  of  common  soldiers  slain. 
Edw.  Lord  Staflford's  father,  duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, 
Is  either  slain,  or  wounded  dangerously  : 
I  cleft  his  beaver  with  a  downright  blow  ; 
That  this  is  true,  father,  behold  his  blood. 

\^Showing  his  bloody  Sword. 
Mont.  And,  brother,  here  's  the  earl  of  Wilt- 
shire's blood,      [To  York,  showing  his. 
Whom  I  encounter'd  as  the  battles  join'd. 

Rich.  Speak  thou  for  me,  and  tell  them  what 
I  did.' 

\Throioing  down  Somerset's  Head. 
York.  Richai-d  hath   best   doserv'd   of  all  my 
sons. —  . 

What,  is  your  grace  dead,  my  lord  of  Somerset  ? 

9fi4 


Norf.  Such  hope  have  all  the  line  of  John  ci 

Gaunt ! 
Rich.  Thus  do  I  hope  to  shake  king  Henry's 

head. 
War.  And  so  do  L — Victorious  prince  of  York, 
Before  I  see  thee  seated  in  that  throne 
Which  now  the  house  of  Lancaster  usurps, 
I  vow  by  heaven,  these  eyes  shall  never  close. 
This  is  the  palace  of  the  fearful  king, 
And  this  the  regal  seat :  possess  it,  York  : 
For  this  is  thine,  and  not  king  Henry's  heirs'. 
York.  Assist  me  then,  sweet  Warwick,  and  I 
will; 
For  hither  we  have  broken  in  by  force. 

Norf.  We  '11  all  assist  you  ;  he,  that  flies,  shall 

die. 
York.  Thanks,  gentle  Norfolk, — Stay  by  me, 
my  lords  ; — 
And,  soldiers,  stay,  and  lodge  by  me  this  night. 
War.  And,  when  the  king  comes,  ofi'er  him  no 
violence. 
Unless  he  seek  to  thrust  you  out  by  force. 

\_They  retire, 
York,  The  queen,  this  day,  here   holds   her 
parliament, 
But  httle  thinks  we  shall  be  of  her  council: 
By  words,  or  blows,  here  let  us  win  our  right. 
Rich.  Arm'd  as  we  are,  let 's  stay  within  this 

house. 
War,  The  bloody  parliament  shall  this  be  call'd, 
Unless  Plantagenet,  duke  of  York,  be  king; 
And  bashful  Henry  depos'd,  whose  cowardice 
nath  made  us  by-  words  to  our  enemies. 


CT    1 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH 


SCENK   I. 


Twlc.  Then  leave  me  not,  my  lords ;  be  reso- 
lute ; 
[  mean  to  take  possession  of  my  right. 

War.  Neither  the  king,  nor  he  that  loves  him 
best, 
The  proudest  he  that  holds  up  Lancaster, 
Dfjres  stir  a  wing,  if  Warwick  shake  his  bells.* 
f  '11  plant  Plantagenet,  root  him  up  who  dares : — 
Resolve  thee,  Richard ;  claim  the  English  crown. 
[War.  leads  York  to  the  Throne,  who 
seats  himself. 

Flourish.  Enter  King  Henry,  Clifford,  Nor- 
thumberland, Westmoreland,  Exeter,  and 
Others,  with  red  Roses  in  their  Hats. 

K.  Hen.  My  lords,  look  where  the  sturdy  rebel 
sits, 
Even  in  the  chair  of  state  !  belike,  he  means, 
(Back'd   by  the   power  of  Warwick,   that  false 

peer,) 
To  aspire  unto  the  crown,  and  reign  as  king. — 
Earl  of  Northumberland,  he  slew  thy  father  ; — 
And  thine,  lord  Clifford ;  and  you  both  have  vow'd 

revenge 
On  him,  his  sons,  his  favourites,  and  his  friends. 
North.   If  I  be  not,  heavens,  be  reveng'd  on  me  ! 
Clif.  The  hope  thereof  makes  Clifford  mourn  in 

steel. 
West.  Wliat,  shall  we  suffer  this  ?  let 's  pluck 
him  down : 
My  heart  for  anger  burns,  I  cannot  brook  it. 
K.  Hen.  Be  patient,  gentle  earl  of  Westmore- 
land. 
Clif.  Patience  is  for  poltroons,  and  such  as  he; 
He  durst  not  sit  there  had  your  father  liv'd. 
My  gracious  lord,  here  in  the  parliament 
Let  us  assail  the  family  of  York. 

North.  Well  hast  thou  spoken,  cousin  ;  be  it  so. 
K.  Hen.  Ah,  know  you  not,  the  city  favours 
them, 
And  they  have  troops  of  soldiers  at  their  beck  ? 
Exe.  But  when  the  duke  is  slain,  they  '11  quickly 

fly. 
K.  Hen.  Far  be  the  thought  of  this  from  Hen- 
ry's heart. 
To  make  a  shambles  of  the  parliament-house  ! 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  frowns,  words,  and  threats, 
Shall  be  the  war  that  Henry  means  to  use. — 

[They  advance  to  the  Duke. 
Tliou  factious  duke  of  York,  descend  my  throne. 
And  kneel  for  grace  and  mercy  at  my  feet ; 
1  am  thy  sovereign. 


York.  Thou  art  deceiv'd,  I  am  thine. 

Exe.  For  shame,  come  down  ;  he  made  thee 

duke  of  York. 
York.  'T  was  my  inheritance,  as  the  earldom 

was. 
Exe.  Thy  father  was  a  traitor  to  the  crov/n. 
War.  Exeter,  thou  art  a  traitor  to  the  crown, 
In  following  this  usurping  Henry. 

Clif.  Whom  should  he  follow,  but  his  natural 

king  ? 
War.  True,  Clifford  ;  and  that's  Richard,  duke 

of  York. 
K.  Hen.  And  shall  I  stand,  and  thou  sit  in  my 

throne  ? 
York.  It  must  and  shall  be  so.    Content  thyself. 
War.  Be  duke  of  Lancaster,  let  him  be  king. 
West.  He  is  both  king  and  duke  of  Lancaster ; 
And  that  the  lord  of  Westmoreland  shall  maintain. 
War.  And  Warwick  shall   disprove  it.     You 
forget. 
That  we   are  those,  which   chas'd  you  from  the 

field. 
And  slew  your  fathers,  and  with  colours  spread 
March'd  through  the  city  to  the  palace  gates. 
North.  Yes,  Warwick,  I  remember  it  to   my 
grief ; 
And,  by  his  soul,  thou  and  thy  house  shall  rue  it. 
West.  Plantagenet,  of  thee,  and  these  thy  sons, 
Thy  kinsmen,  and   thy  friends,   I  '11   have  more 

lives. 
Than  drops  of  blood  were  in  my  father's  veins. 
Clif.  Urge  it  no  more ;  lest   that,  instead   of 
words, 
I  send  thee,  Warwick,  such  a  messenger, 
As  shall  revenge  his  death,  before  I  stir. 

War.  Poor  Clifford  !  how  I  scorn  his  worthless 

threats  ! 
York.    Will  you,   we  show  our  title   to  the 
crown  ? 
If  not,  our  swords  shall  plead  it  in  the  field. 
K.  Hen.  What  title  hast  thou,  traitor,  to  the 
crown  ? 
Thy  father  was,  as  thou  art,  duke  of  York  ; 
Thy  grandfather,  Roger  Mortimer,  earl  of  March  : 
I  am  the  son  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Who    made    the   Dauphin    and   the    French    to 

stoop. 
And  seiz'd  upon  their  towns  and  provinces. 

War.  Talk  not  of  France,  sith  thou  hast  lost  it 

all. 
K.  Hen.  The  lord  protector  lost  it,  and  not  I ; 
When  I  was  crown'd,  I  was  but  nine  months  old 

955 


ACT   I. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


8CEI7E   Z. 


Rich.  You  are  old  enough  now,  and  yet,  me- 
thinks  you  lose  : — 
Father,  tear  the  crown  from  the  usurper's  head. 
Edw.  Sweet  father,  do  so  ;  set  it  on  your  head. 
Mont.  Good  brother,  [To  York.]  as  thou  lov'st 
and  honour'st  arms. 
Let 's  fight  it  out,  and  not  stand  cavilling  thus. 
Rich.  Sound  drums  and  trumpets,  and  the  king 

will  fly. 
York.  Sons,  peace ! 
K.  Hen.    Peace   thou  1  and   give   king  Henry 

leave  to  speak. 
War.  Plantagenet  shall  speak  first : — hear  him, 
lords ; 
And  be  you  silent  and  attentive  too. 
For  he,  that  interrupts  him,  shall  not  live. 

K.  Hen.  Think'st  thou,  that  I  will  leave  my 
kingly  throne. 
Wherein  my  grandsire,  and  my  father,  sat? 
No  :  first  shall  war  unpeople  this  my  realm  ; 
A.y,  and  their  colours — often  borne  in  France ; 
And  now  in  England,  to  our  heart's  great  sorrow, — 
Shall  be  my  winding  sheet. — Why  faint  you,  lords  ? 
My  title's  good,  and  better  far  than  his. 

War.  But  prove  it,  Henry,  and  thou  shalt  be 

king. 
K.  Hen.   Henry  the  Fourth  by  conquest  got 

the  crown. 
York.  'T  was  by  rebellion  against  his  king. 
K.  Hen.  I  know  not  what  to  say  ;  my  title  's 
weak. 
Tell  me,  may  not  a  king  adopt  an  heir? 
York.  What  then  ? 

K.  Hen.  An  if  he  may,  then  am  I  lawful  king : 
For  Richard,  in  the  view  of  many  lords, 
Resign'd  the  crown  to  Henry  the  Fourth  ; 
Whose  heir  my  father  was,  and  I  am  his. 

York.  He  rose  against  him,  being  his  sovereign. 
And  made  him  to  resign  his  crown  perforce. 
Wat.    Suj)p'.)se,   my   lords,   he    did   it  uncon- 
strain'd. 
Think  you,  't  were  prejudicial  to  his  crown  ? 

E.te.  No ;  for  he  could  not  so  resign  his  crown, 
13ut  that  the  next  heir  s-hould  succeed  and  reign. 
K.  Hen.  Art  thou  against  us,  duke  of  Exeter? 
Hxe.  His  is  the  right,  and  therefore  pardon  me. 
York.  Why  whisper  you,  my  lords,  and  answer 

not? 
JExe.  My  conscience  tells  me  he  is  lawful  king. 
K.  Hen.  All  will  revolt  from  me,  and  turn  to 

him. 
North.  Plantagenet,  for  all  the  claim  thou  lay'st, 

956 


Think  not,  that  Henry  shall  be  so  depos'd. 
War.  Depos'd  he  shall  be,  in  despite  of  all. 
North.  Thou  art  deceiv'd  :  't  is  not  thy  southern 
power. 
Of  Essex,  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  nor  of  Kent, — 
Which    makes    thee    thus    presumptuous     and 

proud, — 
Can  set  the  duke  up,  in  despite  of  me. 

Clif.  King  Henry,  be  thy  title  right  or  wrong, 
Lord  Clifford  vows  to  fight  in  thy  defence  : 
May  that  ground  gape,  and  swallow  me  alive, 
Where  I  shall  kneel  to  him  that  slew  my  father ! 
K.  Hen.  0  Clifford,  how  thy  words  revive  my 

heart ! 
York.  Henry  of  Lancaster,  resign  thy  crown  : — • 
What  mutter  you,  or  what  conspire  you,  lords  ? 

War.  Do  right  unto  this  princely  duke  of  York  ; 
Or  I  will  fill  the  house  with  armed  men. 
And,  o'er  the  chair  of  state,  where  now  he  sits. 
Write  up  his  title  with  usurping  blood. 

[He  stamjxs;  and  the  Soldiers  show  themselves. 
K.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Warwick,  hear  me  but  one 
word  ; — 
Let  me,  for  this  my  life-time,  reign  as  king. 

York.  Confirm  the  crown  to  me,  and  to  mine 
heirs. 
And  thou  shalt  reign  in  quiet  while  thou  liv'st. 

K.  Hen.  I  am  content :  Richard  Plantagenet, 
Enjoy  the  kingdom  after  my  decease. 

Clif.  What  wrong  is  this  unto  the  prince  your 

son ! 
War.  What  good  is  this  to  England,  and  him- 
self? 
West.  Base,  feaiful,  and  despairing  Henry  ! 
Clif.  How  hast  thou  injur'd  both  thyself  and  us  ! 
West.  I  cannot  stay  to  hear  these  articles. 
North.  Nor  L 
Clif  Come,  cousin,  let  ua  tell  the   queen  these 

news. 
West.   Farewell,  faint-heartod  and  degenerate 
king. 
In  whose  cold  blood  no  spark  of  honour  bides. 

North.  Be  thou  a  prey  unto  the  house  of  York, 
And  die  iu  bands  for  this  unmanly  deed  ! 

Clif    In  dreadful  war  may'st  thou  be  over- 
come i 
C»r  live  in  peace,  abandon'd,  and  despis'd ! 

[Exeunt  North.,  Clif.,  and  West 
War.  Turn  this  way,  Henry,  and  regard  them 

not. 
Exe.  They  seek  revenge,  and  therefore  will  not 
,  yield. 


ACT   I. 


KINQ  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


X  lien.  Ah,  Exeter ! 

War.  Why  should  you  sigh,  my  lord  ? 

K.  Hen.  Not  for  myself,  lord  Warwick,  but  my 
son, 
Whom  I  unnaturally  shall  disinherit. 
But,  be  it  as  it  may  : — I  here  entail 
The  crown  to  thee,  and  to  thine  heirs  for  ever ; 
Conditionally,  that  here  thou  take  an  oath 
To  cease  this  civil  war,  and,  whilst  I  live. 
To  honour  me  as  thy  king  and  sovereign ; 
And  neither  by  treason,  nor  hostility. 
To  seek  to  put  me  down,  and  reign  thyself. 

York.  This  oath  I  willingly  take,  and  will  per- 
form. \_Coming  from  the  Throne. 
War.    Long  live  king  Henry  ! — Plantagenet, 

embrace  him. 
K.  Hen.  And  long  live  thou,  and  these  thy  for- 
ward sons ! 
York.  Now  York  and  Lancaster  are  reconcil'd. 
Exe.  Accurs'd  be  he,  that  seeks  to  make  them 
foes!  \^Senet.  The  Lords  come  forward. 
York.  Farewell,  my  gracious  lord  ;  I  '11  to  my 

castle. 
War.  And  I  '11  keep  London,  with  my  soldiers, 
JSforf.  And  I  to  Norfolk,  with  my  followers. 
Mont.  And  I  unto  the  sea,  from  whence  I  came. 
\Exeunt  York,  and  his  Sons,  War.,  Nor., 
Mont.,  Soldiers,  and  Attend. 
K.  Hen.  And  I,  with  grief  and  sorrow,  to  the 
court. 

Enter   Queen    Margaret   and    the  Prince    of 

Wales. 

Exe.  Here  comes  the  queen,  whose  looks  be- 
wray her  anger : 
.  '11  steal  away. 

K.  Hen.  Exeter,  so  will  L  [^Going. 

Q.  Mar.  Nay,  go  not  from  me,  I  will  follow 

thee. 
K.  Hen.   Be  patient,  gentle  queen,  and  I  will 

stay. 
Q.  Mar.  Who  can  be  patient  in  such  extremes  ? 
Ah,  wretched  man !  'would  I  had  died  a  maid, 
And  never  seen  thee,  never  borne  thee  son. 
Seeing  thou  hast  prov'd  so  unnatural  a  father ! 
Hath  he  deserv'd  to  lose  his  birthright  thus  ? 
Hadst  thou  but  lov'd  him  half  so  well  as  I ; 
Or  felt  that  pain  which  T  did  for  him  once ; 
Or  nourish'd  him,  as  I  did  with  my  blood ; 
Thou    wouldst  have  left  thy  dearest  heart-blood 

there, 
fwither  than  made  that  sa\  age  duke  tliine  heir. 


And  disinherited  thine  only  son. 

Prince.  FatluT,  you  cannot  disinherit  me  : 
If  you  be  king,  why  should  not  I  succeed  ? 

K.  Hen.  Pardon  me,  Margaret ; — pardon  me, 
sweet  son  ; — 
The  earl  of  Warwick,  ami  the  duke,  enforc'd  me. 

Q.  Mar.   Enforc'd   thee !   art  thou    king,   and 
wilt  be  forc'd  ? 
I  shame  to  hear  thee  speak.    Ah,  timorous  wretch  ! 
Thou  hast  undone  thyself,  thy  son,  and  me ; 
And  given  unto  the  house  of  York  such  head. 
As  thou  shalt  reign  but  by  their  sufferance. 
To  entail  him  and  his  heirs  unto  the  crown, 
What  is  it,  but  to  make  thy  sepulchre. 
And  creep  into  it  far  before  thy  time  ? 
Warwick  is  chancellor,  and  the  lord  of  Calais  ; 
Stern  Faulconbridge  commands  the  narrow  seas  ; 
The  duke  is  made  protector  of  the  realm ; 
And  yet  shalt  thou  be  safe  ?  such  safety  finds 
The  trembling  lamb,  environed  with  wolves. 
Had  I  been  there,  which  am  a  silly  woman, 
The  soldiers  should  have  toss'd  me  on  their  pikes, 
Before  I  would  have  granted  to  that  act. 
But  thou  preferr'st  thy  life  before  thine  honour: 
And  seeing  thou  dost,  I  here  divorce  myself. 
Both  from  thy  table,  Henry,  and  thy  bed, 
Until  that  act  of  pai'liaraent  be  repeal'd. 
Whereby  my  son  is  disinherited. 
The  northern  lords,  that  have  forsworn  thy  colours, 
Will  follow  mine,  if  once  they  see  them  spread  : 
And  spread  they  shall  be ;  to  thy  foul  disgrace, 
And  utter  ruin  of  the  house  of  York. 
Thus  do  I  leave  thee  ; — Come,  son,  let's  awaj  ; 
Our  army 'sready  ;  come,  we  '11  after  them. 

K.  Hen.  Stay,  gentle  Margaret,  and  hear  me 
speak. 

Q.  Mar.  Thou  hast  spoke  too  much  already ; 
get  thee  gone. 

K.  Hen.  Gentle  son  Edward,  thou  will   stay 
with  me? 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  to  be  murder'd  by  his  enemies. 

Prince.  When  I  return  with  victory  from  the 
field, 
I  '11  see  your  grace :  till  then,  I  '11  follow  her. 

Q.  Mar.  Come,  son,  away  ;  we  may  not  linger 
thus. 

[Exeunt  Q.  Mar.,  and  the  Prince. 

K.  Hen.  Poor  queen  !  how  love  to  me,  and  to 
her  son. 
Hath  made  her  break  out  into  terms  of  rage 
Reveng'd  may  she  be  on  that  hateful  duke ' 
Whose  haughty  spirit,  winged  with  desire, 

967 


L. 


ACT   I. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCEKB  n. 


Will  cost  my  crown,  and,  like  an  empty  eagle, 
Tire  on  the  flesh  of  me,  and  of  my  son  ! 
The  loss  of  those  three  lords  torments  my  heart;' 
I  '11  write  unto  them,  and  entreat  them  fair ; — 
Come,  cousin,  you  shall  be  the  messenger. 
Exe.  And  I,  I 'hope,  shall  reconcile  tb'^ra  all. 

^^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Sandal  Castle^  near 
Wakefield,  in  Yorkshire. 

Enter  Edward,  Richard,  and  Montague. 

Rich.  Brother,  though  I  be  youngest,  give  me 

leave. 
Edw.  No,  I  can  better  play  the  orator. 
Mont.  But  I  have  reasons  strong  and  forcible. 

Enter  York. 

York,  Why,  how  now,  sons  and  brother,''  at  a 
strife  ? 
What  is  your  quarrel  ?  how  began  it  first  ? 
Edw,  No  quarrel,  but  a  slight  contention. 
York.  About  what  ? 

Rich,  About  that  which  concerns  your  grace, 
and  us ; 
The  crown  of  England,  father,  which  is  yours. 
York.  Mine,  boy?  not  till  king  Henry  be  dead. 
Rich.  Your  right  depends  not  on  his  life,  or 

death. 
Edw.  Now  you  are  heir,  therefore  enjoy  it  now : 
By  giving  the  house  of  Lancaster  leave  to  breathe. 
It  will  outrun  you,  father,  in  the  end. 

York.  I  took  an  oath,  that  he  should  quietly 

reign. 
Edw.  But,  for  a  kingdom,  any  oath  may  be 
broken : 
I  'd  break  a  thousand  oaths,  to  reign  one  year. 
Rich.  No ;  God  forbid  your  grace  should  be 

forsworn. 
York.  I  shall  be,  if  I  claim  by  open  war. 
Rich.  I  '11  prove  the  contrary,  if  you  '11  hear  me 

speak. 
York.  Thou  canst  not,  son ;  it  is  impo.ssible. 
Rich,  An    oath  is  of  no  moment,  being  not 
took 
Before  a  true  and  lawful  magistrate. 
That  hath  authority  over  him  that  swears : 
Henry  had  none,  but  did  usurp  the  place  ; 
Then,  seeing  't  was  he  that  made  you  to  depose, 
Your  oath,  my  lord,  is  vain  and  frivolous. 
Therefore  to  arras.     And,  father,  do  but  think. 
How  8VI  eet  a  thing  it  is  to  wear  a  crown ; 
968 


AVithin  whose  circuit  is  Elysium, 
And  all  that  poets  feign  of  bliss  and  joy. 
Why  do  we  linger  thus  ?  I  cannot  rest, 
Until  the  white  rose,  that  I  wear,  be  dyed 
Even  in.  the  lukewarm  blood  of  Henry's  heart. 

York.  Richard,  enough  ;  I  will  be  king,  or  die. — 
Brother,  thou  shalt  to  London  presently. 
And  whet  on  Warwick  to  this  enterprise. — 
Thou,  Richard,  shalt  unto  the  duke  of  Norfolk, 
And  tell  him  privily  of  our  intent. — 
You,  Edward,  shall  unto  my  lord  Cobham, 
With  whom  the  Kentishmen  will  willingly  rise  : 
In  them  I  trust ;  for  they  are  soldiers. 
Witty  and  courteous,  liberal,  full  of  spirit. — 
While  you  are  thus  employ'd,  what  resteth  more, 
But  that  I  seek  occasion  how  to  rise ; 
And  yet  the  king  not  privy  to  my  drift, 
Nor  any  of  the  house  of  Lancaster  ? 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

But,  stay  :  What  news  ?  Why  com'st  thou  in  such 

post? 
Mess.  The  queen,  with  all  the  northern  earls 

and  lords, 
Intend  here  to  besiege  you  in  your  castle : 
She  is  hard  by  with  twenty  thousand  men ; 
And  therefore  fortify  your  hold,  my  lord. 

York.  Ay,  with  my  sword.     What !  think'st 

thou,  that  we  fear  them  ? 
Edward  and  Richard,  you  shall  stay  with  me; — 
My  brother  Montague  shall  post  to  London: 
Let  noble  Warwick,  Cobham,  and  the  rest. 
Whom  we  have  left  protectors  of  the  king. 
With  powerful  policy  strengthen  themselves. 
And  trust  not  simple  Henry,  nor  his  oaths. 

Mont.  Brother,   I  go ;  I  '11  win  them,  fear  it 

not: 
And  thus  most  humbly  I  do  take  my  leave.  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  John  and  Sir  Hugh  Mortimer. 

York.  Sir  John,  and  Sir  Hugh  Mortimer,  mine 
uncles  I 
You  are  come  to  Sandal  in  a  happy  hour ; 
The  army  of  the  queen  mean  to  besiege  us. 

Sir  John.  She  shall  not  need,  we  '11  meet  her  in 

the  field. 
York.  W^hat,  with  five  thousand  men  ? 
Rich.  Ay,  with  five  hundred,  father,  for  a  need. 
A  woman  's  general :  What  should  we  fear  ? 

[A  March  afar  off, 
Edw.  I  hear  their  drums ;  let 's  set  our  men  in 
order : 


i 


ACT    I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE  in-i>. 


And  issut  forth,  and  bid  them  battle  straight. 
York.  Five  men  to  twenty  ! — though  the  odds 
be  great, 
I  doubt  not,  uncle,  of  our  victory. 
Many  a  battle  have  I  won  in  France, 
When  as  the  enemy  hath  been  ten  to  one ; 
Why  should  I  not  now  have  the  like  success  ? 

\^Alarum.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Plains  near  Sandal  Castle. 

Alarums  :  Excursions.     Enter  Rutland,  and  his 
Tutor. 

But.  Ah,  whither  shall  I  fly,  to  'scape  their 
hands ! 
Ah,  tutor !  look,  where  bloody  Clifford  comes  ! 

Enter  Clifford,  and  Soldiers. 

Clif.  Chaplain,  away  !  thy  priesthood  saves  thy 
life. 
As  for  the  brat  of  this  accursed  duke, 
Whose  father  slew  my  father, — he  shall  die. 
Tut.  And  I,  my  lord,  will  bear  him  company. 
Clif.  Soldiers,  away  with  him. 
Tut.  Ah,  Clifford  1  murder  not  this  innocent 
child, 
Lest  thou  be  hated  both  of  God  and  man. 

[Exit,  forced  off  by  Soldiers. 
Clif.  How  now !  is  he  dead  already  ?  Or,  is  it^ 
fear, 
That  makes  him  close  his  eyes  ? — I  '11  open  them. 
Rut.  So  looks  the  pent-up  lion  o'er  the  wretch 
That  trembles  under  his  devouring  paws  : 
And  so  he  walks,  insulting  o'er  his  prey  ; 
And  so  he  comes  to  rend  his  limbs  asunder. — 
Ah,  gentle  Clifford,  kill  me  with  thy  sword. 
And  not  with  such  a  cruel  threat'ning  look. 
Sweet  Clifford,  hear  me  speak  before  I  die : — 
I  am  too  mean  a  subject  for  thy  wrath. 
Be  thou  reveng'd  on  men,  and  let  me  live. 

Clif.  In  vain  thou  speak'st,  poor  boy ;  my  fa- 
^     ther's  blood 
Hath  stopp'd  the  passage  where  thy  words  should 
enter. 
Rut.  Then  let  my  father's  blood  open  it  again ; 
He  is  a  man,  and,  Clifford,  cope  with  him. 

Clif  Had  I  thy  brethren  here,  their  lives,  and 
thine. 
Were  not  revenge  sufficient  for  me  ; 
No,  if  I  digg'd  up  thy  forefathers'  graves. 
And  hung  their  rotten  coffins  up  in  chains, 
It  could  not  slake  mine  ire,  nor  ease  my  heart. 


The  sight  of  any  of  the  house  of  York 
Is  as  a  fury  to  torment  my  soul ; 
And  till  I  root  out  their  accursed  line. 
And  leave  not  one  alive,  I  hve  in  hell. 
Therefore \_IAfting  his  Hana 

Rut.  O,  let  me  pray  before  I  take  my  death  : — 
To  thee  I  pray  :  Sweet  Clifford,  pity  me ! 

Clif  Such  pity  as  my  rapier's  point  affords. 

Rut.  I  never  did  thee  harm :  Why  wilt  thou 
slay  me  ? 

Clif.  Thy  father  hath. 

Rut.  But 't  was  ere  I  was  born  ;* 

Thou  hast  one  son,  for  his  sake  pity  me ; 
Lest,  in  revenge  thereof, — sith  God  is  just, — 
He  be  as  miserably  slain  as  I. 
Ah,  let  me  live  in  prison  all  my  days  ; 
And  when  I  give  occasion  of  offience, 
Then  let  me  die,  for  now  thou  hast  no  cause. 

Clif.  No  cause  ? 
Thy  father  slew  my  father  ;  therefore,  die. 

[Clif.  stabs  him. 

Rut.  Dii  faciant,  laudis  summa  sit  ista  tuce! 

[Dies. 

Clif.  Plantagenet !  I  come,  Plantagenet ! 
And  this  thy  son's  blood  cleaving  to  my  blade, 
Shall  rust  upon  my  weapon,  till  thy  blood, 
Congeal'd  with  this,  do  make  me  wipe  off  both. 

[Exit 

SCENE  TV.— The  Same. 

Alarum.     Enter  York. 
York.  The  army  of  the  queen  hath   ffot  tht 

field  : 
My  uncles  both  are  slain  in  rescuing  me  f 
And  all  my  followers  to  the  eager  foe 
Turn  back,  and  fly,  like  ships  before  the  wind, 
Or  lambs  pursu'd  by  hunger-starved  wolves. 
My  sons — God  knows,  what  hath  bechanced  them  : 
But  this  I  know, — they  have  demean'd  themselves 
Like  men  born  to  renown,  by  life,  or  death. 
Three  times  did  Richard  make  a  lane  to  me ; 
And  thrice  cried, — "  Courage,  father  1  fight  it  out !" 
And  full  as  oft  came  Edward  to  my  side, 
With  purple  faulchion,  painted  to  the  hilt 
In  blood  of  those  that  had  encounter'd  him  : 
And  when  the  hardiest  warriors  did  retire, 
Richard    cried, — "  Charge  !    and  give  no  foot  of 

ground !" 
And  cried, — "  A  crown,  or  else  a  glorious  tomb  ! 
A  sceptre,  or  an  earthly  sepulchre !" 
With  this,  we  charg'd  again  :  but,  out,  alas  I 

969 


ACT    I, 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE    IV. 


We  bodg'd  again ;    as  I  have  seen  a  swan 
With  bootless  labour  swim  against  the  tide, 
And  spend  her  strength  with  over-matching  waves. 
[-4  short  Alarum  within. 
Ah,  hark !  the  fatal  followers  do  pursue  ; 
And  I  am  faint,  and  cannot  fly  their  fury  : 
And,  were  I  strong,  I  would  not  shun  their  fury : 
The  sands  are  number'd  that  make  up  my  life ; 
Here  must  I  stay,  and  here  my  life  must  end. 

Enter  Queen  Margaret,  Clifford,  Northum- 
berland, and  Soldiers. 

Come,  bloody  Clifford, — rough  Northumberland, — 
I  dare  your  quenchless  fury  to  more  rage : 
I  am  your  butt,  and  I  abide  your  shot. 

North.  Yield  to  our  mercy,  proud  Plantagenet. 
Clif.  Ay,  to  such  mercy,  as  his  ruthless  arm, 
With  downright  payment,  show'd  unto  my  father. 
Now  Phaeton  hath  tumbled  from  his  car, 
And  made  an  evening  at  the  noontide  prick. 
York.    My  ashes,  as  the    phoenix,  may  bring 
forth 
A  bird  that  will  revenge  upon  you  all : 
And,  in  that  hope,  I  throw  mine  eyes  to  heaven. 
Scorning  whate'er  you  can  afflict  me  with. 
Why  come  you  not?  what!  multitudes,  and  fear? 
Clif.  So  cowards  fight,  when  they  can  fly  no 
further ; 
So  doves  do  peck  the  falcon's  piercing  talons ; 
So  desperate  thieves,  all  hopeless  of  their  lives, 
Breathe  out  invectives  'gainst  the  officers. 

York.  O,  Clifford,  but  bethink  thee  once  again. 
And  in  thy  thought  o'er-run  my  former  time : 
And,  i^hou  canst  for  blushing,  view  this  face ; 
And  bite  thy  tongue,  that  slanders  him  with  cow- 
ardice, 
Whose  frown  hath  made  thee  faint  and  fly  ere  this. 
Clif.  I  will  not  bandy  with  thee  word  for  word  ; 
But  buckle  with  thee  blows,  twice  two  for  one. 

\I)raws. 
Q.  Mar.  Hold,  valiant  Clifford  1  for  a  thousand 
causes, 
I  would  prolong  awhile  the  traitor's  life : — 
Wrath  makes  him  deaf:  speak  thou,  Northum- 
berland. 
North.  Hold,  Clifford  ;  do  not  honour  him  so 
much, 
To  prick  thy  finger,  though  to  wound  his  heart : 
What  valour  were  it,  when  a  cur  doth  grin. 
For  one  to  thrust  his  hand  between  his  teeth, 
When  he  might  spurn  him  with  his  foot  away  ? 
It  is  war's  prize  to  take  all  vantages : 
960 


And  ten  to  one  is  no  impeach  of  valour. 

{^They  lay  hands  on  York,  who  strvggles. 

Clif.  Ay,  ay,  so  strives  the  woodcock  with  the 
gin. 

North.  So  doth  the  coney  struggle  in  the  net. 
[York  is  taken  2>risoner, 

York.  So  triumph  thieves  upon  their  conquer'd 
booty ; 
So  true  men  yield,  with  robbers  so  o'er-match'd. 

North.  What  would  your  grace  have  done  unto 
him  now  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Brave  warriors,  Cliffoid,  and  North- 
umberland, 
Come  make  him  stand  upon  this  molehill  here ; 
That  raught  at  mountains  with  outstretched  arms, 
Yet  parted  but  the  shadow  with  his  hand. — 
What !  was  it  you,  that  would  be  England's  king ' 
Was  't  you  that  revell'd  in  our  parliament, 
And  made  a  preachment  of  your  high  descent? 
Where  are  your  mess  of  sons  to  back  you  now  ? 
The  wanton  Edward,  and  the  lusty  George  ? 
And  where  's  that  valiant  crook-back  prodigy, 
Dicky  your  boy,  that,  with  his  grumbling  voice. 
Was  wont  to  cheer  his  dad  in  mutinies  ? 
Or,  with  the  rest,  where  is  your  darling  Rutland  ? 
Look,  York ;  I  stain'd  this  napkin  with  the  blood 
That  valiant  Clifford,  with  his  rapier's  point. 
Made  issue  from  the  bosom  of  the  boy  : 
And,  if  thine  eyes  can  water  for  his  death, 
I  give  thee  this  to  dry  thy  cheeks  withal. 
Alas,  poor  York !  but  that  I  hate  thee  deadly, 
I  should  lament  thy  miserable  state. 
I  pr'ythee,  grieve,  to  make  me  merry,  York  ; 
Stamp,  rave,  and  fret,  that  I  may  sing  and  dance. 
What,  hath  thy  fiery  heart  so  parch'd  thine  en- 
trails. 
That  not  a  tear  can  fail  for  Rutland's  death  ? 
Why  art  thou  patient,  man  ?    thou  shouldst  be 

mad ; 
And  I,  to  make  thee  mad,  do  mock  thee  thu*. 
Thou  would'st  be  fee'd,  I  see,  to  make  me  sport ; 
York  cannot  speak,  unless  he  wear  a  crown. — 
A  crown  for  York  ; — and,  lords,  bow  low  to  him. — 
Hold  you  his  hands,  whilst  I  do  set  it  on. — 

\_Putting  a  paper  Crown  on  his  Head 
Ay,  marry,  sir,  now  looks  he  like  a  king ! 
Ay,  this  is  he  that  took  king  Henry's  chair ; 
And  this  is  he  was  his  adopted  heir. — 
But  how  is  it  that  great  Plantagenet 
Is  crown'd  so  soon,  and  broke  his  solemn  oath  ? 
As  I  bethink  me,  you  should  not  be  king, 
Till  our  king  Henrv  had  shook  hands  with  death. 


Atn  I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


t-CKiNK    aV. 


And  will  you  pale  your  head  in  Henry's  glory, 

And  rob  his  temples  of  the  diadem, 

Now  in  his  life,  against  your  holy  oath  ? 

0,  't  is  a  fault,  too,  too  unpardonable  ! — 

OS  with  the  crown  ;    and,  with  the  crown,  his 

head  ; 
And,  whilst  we  breathe,  take  time  to  do  him  dead. 
Clif.  That  is  my  office,  for  my  father's  sake. 
Q.  Mar.  Nay,  stay;  let  's  hear  the  orisons  he 

makes. 
York.    She-wolf  of  France,    but    worse   than 

wolves  of  France, 
Whose  tongue  more   poisons   than   the    adder's 

tooth  ! 
How  ill-beseeming  is  it  in  thy  sex. 
To  triumph  like  an  Amazonian  trull. 
Upon  their  woes,  whom  fortune  captivates  ! 
But  that  thy  face  is,  visor-like,  unchanging. 
Made  impudent  with  use  of  evil  deeds, 
I  would  assay,  proud  queen,  to  make  thee  blush : 
To  tell  thee  whence  thou  cam'st,  of  whom  deriv'd. 
Were  shame  enough  to  shame  thee,  wert  thou  not 

shameless. 
Thy  fother  bears  the  type  of  king  of  Naples, 
Of  botli  the  Sicils,  and  Jerusalem  ; 
Yet  not  so  wealthy  as  an  English  yeoman. 
Hath  that  poor  monarch  taught  thee  to  insult  ? 
It  needs  not,  nor  it  boots  thee  not,  proud  queen ; 
Unless  the  adage  must  be  verified, — 
That  beggars,  mounted,  run  their  horse  to  death. 
'T  is  beauty,  that  doth  oft  make  women  proud ; 
But,  God  he  knows,  thy  share  thereof  is  small : 
'T  is  virtue,  that  doth  make  them  most  admir'd; 
The  contrary  doth  make  thee  wonder'd  at : 
'T  is  government,  that  makes  them  seem  divine ; 
The  want  thereof  makes  thee  abominable : 
Thou  art  as  opposite  to  every  good, 
As  the  Antipodes  are  unto  us, 
Or  as  the  south  to  the  septentrion.® 
0,  tiger's  heart,  wrapp'd  in  a  woman's  hide ! 
How  could'st  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the  child. 
To  bid  the  father  wipe  his  eyes  withal. 
And  yet  be  seen  to  bear  a  woman's  face  ? 
Women  are  soil,  mild,  pitiful,  and  flexible  ; 
lliou  stern,  obdurate,  flinty,  rough,  remorseless. 
Bid'st  thou  me  rage?  why,  now  thou  hast  thy 

wish  : 
Wo'jld'st  have  me  weep?  why,  now  thou  hast 

thy  will : 


For  raging  wind  blows  up  incessant  showers. 
And,  when  the  rage  allays,  the  rain  begins. 
These  tears  are  my  sweet  Rutland's  obsequies  ; 
And  every  drop  cries  vengeance  for  his  death, — 
'Gaiast  thee,  fell  Clifford, — and  thee,  false  French 
woman. 
North.  Beshrew  me,  but   his   passions   move 
me  so, 
That  hardly  can  I  check  my  eyes  from  tears. 

York.  That  face  of  his  the  hungry  cannibals 
Would  not  have  touch'd,  would  not  have  stain'd 

with  blood : 
But  you  are  more  inhuman,  more  inexorable, — 
0,  ten  times  more, — than  tigers  of  Hyrcania. 
See,  ruthless  queen,  a  hapless  father's  tears  : 
This  cloth  thou  dipp'dst  in  blood  of  my  sweet 

boy, 
And  I  with  tears  do  wash  the  blood  away. 
Keep  thou  the  napkin,  and  go  boast  of  this : 

\He  gives  back  the  Handkerchief 
And,  if  thou  tell'st  the  heavy  story  right. 
Upon  my  soul,  the  hearers  will  shed  tears ; 
Yea,  even  my  foes  will  shed  fast-falling  tears. 
And  say, — Alas,  it  was  a  piteous  deed ! — 
There,  take  the  crown,  and,  with  the  crown,  ray 

curse ; 
And,  in  thy  need,  such  comfort  come  to  thee, 
As  now  I  reap  at  thy  too  cruel  hand  ! — 
Hard-hearted  Clifford,  take  me  from  the  world ; 
My  soul  to  heaven,  my  blood  upon  your  heads. 
North.  Had  he  been  slaughter-man  to  all  my 
kin, 
I  should  not  for  my  life  but  weep  with  him, 
To  see  how  inly  sorrow  gripes  his  soul. 

Q.  Mar.  What,  weeping-ripe,  my  lord  North 
umberland  ? 
Think  but  upon  the  wrong  he  did  us  all, 
And  that  will  quickly  dry  thy  melting  tears. 
Clif.  Here  's  for  my  oath,  here  's  for  my  fa- 
ther's death.  [^Stabbing  him. 
Q.  Mar.  And.  here  's   to    right   our   gentle- 
hearted  king.                    [Stabbing  him. 
York.  Open  thy  gate  of  mercy,  gracious  God  ! 
My  soul  flies  through  these  wounds  to  seek  out 
thee.  [Dies. 
Q.  Mar.  Off  with  his  head,  and  set  it  on  York 
gates ; 
So  York  may  overlook  the  town  of  York. 

[Ureunt. 
961 


THffiD  PART  OF 


6CBNB   I. 


ACT   II. 


SCENE  I. — A  Plain  near  Mortimer'a  Cross  in 
Herefordshire. 

gjnmis.    Enter  Edward,  and  Richard,  uoith  their 
Forces,  marching. 

Edw.  I  wonder,  how  our  princely  father  scap'd ; 
Or  whether  he  be  'scap'd  away,  or  no. 
From  Clifford's  and  Northumberland's  pursuit ; 
Had  he  been  ta'en,  we  should  have  heard  the 

news ; 
Had  he  been  slain,  we  should  have  heard   the 

news ; 
Or,  had  he  'scap'd,  methinks,  we  should  have 

heard 
The  happy  tidings  of  his  good  escape. — 
Eow  fares  my  brother  ?  why  is  he  so  sad  ? 

Rich.  I  cannot  joy,  until  I  be  resolv'd 
Where  our  right  valiant  father  is  become. 
I  saw  him  in  the  battle  range  about ; 
And  watch'd  him,  how  he  singled  Clifford  forth. 
Methought,  he  bore  him  in  the  thickest  troop. 
As  doth  a  lion  in  a  herd  of  neat : 
Or  as  a  bear,  encompass'd  round  with  dogs ; 
Who  having  pinch'd  a  few,  and  made  them  cry, 
The  rest  stand  all  aloof,  and  bark  at  him. 
So  far'd  our  father  with  his  enemies ; 
So  fled  his  enemies  my  warlike  father ; 
Methinks,  't  is  prize  enough  to  be  his  son. 
See,  how  the  morning  opes  her  golden  gates. 
And  takes  her  farewell  of  the  glorious  sun  ! 
How  well  resembles  it  the  prime  of  youth, 
Trimm'd  like  a  younker,  prancing  to  hia  love  ! 
Edw.  Dazzle   mine  eyes,   or   do  I  see   three 

suns  ?* 
Rich.  Three  glorious  suns,  each  one  a  perfect 

sun  ; 
Not  separated  with  the  racking  clouds, 
But  sever'd  in  a  pale  clear-shining  sky. 
See,  see !  they  join,  embrace,  and  seem  to  kiss, 
As  if  they  vow'd  some  league  inviolable  : 
Now  are  they  but  one  lamp,  one  light,  one  sun. 
In  this  the  heaven  figures  some  event. 

Edw,  'T  is  wondrous  strange,  the  like  yet  never 

heard  of. 
{  think,  it  cites  us,  brother,  to  the  field ; 

962 


That  we,  the  sons  of  brave  Plantagenet, 
Each  one  already  blazing  by  our  meeds. 
Should,  notwithstanding,  join  our  lights  together, 
And  over-shine  the  earth,  as  this  the  world. 
Whate'er  it  bodes,  henceforward  will  I  bear 
Upon  my  target  three  fair  shining  suns. 

Rich.  Nay,   bear  three  daughters ; — by  your 
leave  I  speak  it, 
You  love  the  breeder  better  than  the  male. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

But  what  art  thou,  whose  heavy  looks  foretel 
Some  dreadful  story  hanging  on  thy  tongue  ? 

Mess.  Ah,  one  that  was  a  woful  looker  on, 
When  as  the  noble  duke  of  York  was  slain, 
Your  princely  father,  and  my  loving  lord. 

Edw.  O,  speak  no  more  !  for  I  have  heard  too 
much. 

Rich.  Say  how  he  died,  for  I  will  hear  it  all. 

Mess.  Environed  he  was  with  many  foes ; 
And  stood  against  them  as  the  hope  of  Troy 
Against   the    Greeks,    that    would   have    enter'd 

Troy.^ 
But  Hercules  himself  must  yield  to  odds ; 
And  many  strokes,  though  with  a  little  axe. 
Hew  down  and  fell  the  hardest- timber'd  oak. 
By  many  hands  your  father  was  subdu'd ; 
But  only  slaughter'd  by  the  ireful  arm 
Of  unrelenting  Clifford,  and  the  queen  : 
Who  crown'd  the  gracious  duke  in  high  despite ; 
Laugh'd  in  his  face ;    and,  when  with  grief  ho 

wept. 
The  ruthless  queen  gave  him,  to  dry  his  cheeks, 
A  napkin  steeped  in  the  harmless  blood 
Of  sweet  young  Rutland,  by  rough  Clifford  slain  ; 
And,  after  many  scorns,  many  foul  taunts, 
They  took  his  head,  and  on  the  gates  of  York, 
They  set  the  same ;  and  there  it  doth  remain, 
The  saddest  spectacle  that  e'er  1  view'd. 

Edw.  Sweet  duke  of  York,  our  prop  to  lean 
upon  ; 
Now  thou  art  gone,  we  have  no  staff,  no  stay  I-- 
O  Clifford,  boist'rous  Clifford,  thou  hast  slain 
The  flower  of  Europe  for  his  chivalry ; 
And  treacherously  hast  tliou  vanquish'd  him, 


ACT    U. 


KINO  HENRY  iHE  SIXTH. 


For,  hand  to  hand,  he  would  have  vanquish'd 

thee  !— 
Now  my  soul's  palace  is  become  a  prison : 
Ah,  would  she  break  from  hence  !  that  this  my 

body 
Might  in  the  ground  be  closed  up  in  rest : 
For  never  henceforth  shall  I  joy  again, 
Never,  O  never,  shall  I  see  more  joy. 

Rich.  I  cannot  weep  ;  for  all  my  body's  moist- 
ure 
Scarce  serves  to  quench  my  furnace-burning  heart : 
Nor  can  my  tongue  unload  my  heart's  great  bur- 
den ; 
For  self-same  wind,  that  I  should  speak  withal, 
Is  kindling  coals,  that  fire  all  my  breast, 
And  burn  me  up  with  flames,  that  tears  would 

quench. 
To  weep,  is  to  make  less  the  depth  of  grief : 
Tears,  then,  for  babes ;   blows,  and  revenge,  for 

me ! — 
Richard,  I  bear  thy  name,  I  '11  venge  thy  death, 
Or  die  renowned  by  attempting  it. 

Edw.  His  name   that  valiant  duke  hath  left 
with  thee ; 
His  dukedom  and  his  chair  with  me  is  left. 

Rich.  Nay,  if  thou  be  that  princely  eagle's  bird, 
Show  thy  descent  by  gazing  'gainst  the  sun  : 
For  cliair  and  dukedom,  throne  and  kingdom  say  ; 
Either  that  is  thine,  or  else  thou  wert  not  his. 

March.     Enter  Warwick  and  Montague,  with 
Forces. 

War.  How  now,  fair  lords  ?    What  fare  ?  what 

news  abroad  ? 
Rich.  Great  lord  of  Warwick,  if  we  should  re- 
count 
Our  baleful  news,  and,  at  each  word's  deliverance, 
Stab  poniards  in  our  flesh  till  all  were  told. 
The  words  would  add  more  anguish  than   the 
wounds. 

0  valiant  lord,  the  duke  of  York  is  slain. 

Edw.  0  Warwick  !  Warwick  !  that  Plantage- 
net. 
Which  held  thee  dearly,  as  his  soul's  redemption, 
Is  by  the  stern  lord  Clifford  done  to  death. 

War.  Ten  days  ago  I  drown'd  these  news  in 
tears : 
And  now,  to  add  more  measure  to  your  woes, 

1  come  to  tell  you  things  since  then  befali'n. 
After  the  bloody  fray  at  Wakefield  fought, 
Where  your  brave  father  breath'd  his  latest  gasp, 
Tidings,  as  swiftly  ns  the  posts  could  run. 


Were  brought  me  of  your  loss,  and  his  depart 
I  then  in  London,  keeper  of  the  king, 
Muster'd  my  soldiers,  gather'd  flocks  of  friends, 
And  very  well  appointed,  as  I  thought, 
March'd  towards  Saint  Alban's  to  intercept  the 

queen. 
Bearing  the  king  in  my  behalf  along  : 
For  by  my  scouts  I  was  advertised. 
That  she  was  coming  with  a  full  intent 
To  dash  our  late  decree  in  parliament. 
Touching  king  Henry's  oath,  and  your  succession. 
Short  tale  to  make, — we  at  Saint  Alban's  met. 
Our  battles  join'd,  and  both  sides  fiercely  fought  * 
But,  whether  't  was  the  coldness  of  the  king, 
Who  look'd  full  gently  on  his  warlike  queen. 
That  robb'd  my  soldiers  of  their  hated  spleen  ; 
Or  whether  't  was  report  of  her  success  ; 
Or  more  than  common  fear  of  Clifford's  rigour, 
Who  thunders  to  his  captives — blood  and  death, 
I  cannot  judge  :  but,  to  conclude  with  truth. 
Their  weapons  like  to  lightning  came  and  went ; 
Our  soldiers' — like  the  night-owl's  lazy  flight, 
Or  like  a  lazy  thrasher  with  a  flail, — 
Fell  gently  down,  as  if  they  struck  their  friends. 
I  cheer'd  them  up  with  justice  of  our  cause. 
With  promise  of  high  pay,  and  great  rewards : 
But  all  in  vain  ;  they  had  no  heart  to  fight, 
And  we,  in  them,  no  hope  to  win  the  day. 
So  that  we  fled  ;  the  king,  unto  the  queen  ; 
Lord  George  your  brother,  Norfolk,  and  myself. 
In  haste,  post-haste,  are  come  to  join  with  you ; 
For  in  the  marches  here,  we  heard  you  were. 
Making  another  head  to  fight  again. 

Edw.  Where  is   the  duke  of  Norfolk,  gentle 

Warwick  ? 
And  when  came  George  from  Burgundy  to  Eng- 
land ? 
War.  Some  six  miles  oft'  the  duke  is  with  the 

soldiers : 
And  for  your  brother, — he  was  lately  sent 
From  your  kind  aunt,  duchess  of  Burgundy, 
With  aid  of  soldiers  to  this  needful  war. 

Rich.  'T  was  odds,  belike,  when  valiant  Warwick 

fled: 
Oft  have  I  heard  his  praises  in  pursuit. 
But  ne'er,  till  now,  his  scandal  of  retire. 

War.  Nor  now  my  scandal,  Richard,  dost  thou 

hear: 
For  thou  shalt  know,  this  strong  right  hand  d 

mine 
Can  pluck  the  diadem  from  faint  Henry's  head. 
And  wring  the  awful  sceptre  from  his  fist ; 

968 


ACT  n. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE  n. 


Were  he  as  famous  and  as  bold  in  war, 

As  he  is  fam'd  for  mildness,  peace,  and  prayer. 

Rich.  I  know  it  well,  lord  Warwick :  blame  me 
not; 
T  is  love,  I  bear  thy  glories,  makes  me  speak. 
But,  in  this  troublous  time,  what 's  to  be  done  ? 
Shall  we  go  throw  away  our  coats  of  steel. 
And  wrap  our  bodies  in  black  mourning  gowns, 
Numb'ring  our  Ave-Maries  with  our  beads  ? 
Or  shall  we  on  the  helmets  of  our  foes 
Tell  our  devotion  with  revengeful  arms  ? 
If  for  the  last,  say — Ay,  and  to  it,  lords. 

War.  Why,  therefore  Warwick  came  to  seek 
you  out ; 
And  therefore  comes  my  brother  Montague. 
Attend  me,  lords.     The  proud  insulting  queen, 
With  Clifford,  and  the  haught  Northumberland, 
And  of  their  feather,  many  more  proud  birds, 
Have  wrought  the  easy-melting  king  like  wax. 
He  swore  consent  to  your  succession, 
His  oath  enrolled  in  the  parliament ; 
And  now  to  London  all  the  crew  are  gone, 
To  frustrate  both  his  oath,  and  what  beside 
May  make  against  the  house  of  Lancaster. 
Tlieir  power,  I  think,  is  thirty  thousand  strong : 
Now,  if  the  help  of  Norfolk,  and  myself. 
With  all  the  friends  that  thou,  brave  earl  of  March, 
Amongst  the  loving  Welshmen  canst  procure, 
Will  but  amount  to  five-and-twenty  thousand, 
Why,  Via  !  to  London  will  we  march  amain  ; 
And  once  again  bestride  our  foaming  steeds, 
And  once  again  cry — Charge  upon  our  foes ! 
But  never  once  again  turn  back,  and  fly. 

Rich.  Ay,  now,  methinks,  I  hear  great  War- 
wick speak : 
Ne'er  may  he  live  to  see  a  sunshine  day. 
That  cries — Retire,  if  Warwick  bid  him  stay. 

Edw.  Lord  Warwick,  on  thy  shoulder  will  I 
lean  ; 
And  when  thou  fall'st,  (as  God  forbid  the  hour !) 
Must  Edward  fall,  which  peril  heaven  forefend  ! 

War.  No  longer  earl  of  March,  but  duke  of  York ; 
The  next  degree  is,  England's  royal  throne  : 
For  king  of  England  shalt  thou  be  proclaim'd 
In  every  borough  as  we  pass  along ; 
And  he  that  throws  not  up  his  cap  for  joy. 
Shall  for  the  fault  make  forfeit  of  his  head. 
King  Edward, — valiant  Richard, — Montague, — 
Stay  we  no  longer  dreaming  of  renown. 
But  sound  the  trumpets,  and  about  our  task. 

Rich.  Then,  Cliftbrd,  were  thy  heart  as  hard  as 
steel, 
U64 


(As  thou  hast  shown  it  flinty  bv  thy  deeds,) 
I  come  to  pierce  it, — or  to  give  thee  mine. 

Edw.  Then  strike  up,  drums ; — God,  and  Saint 
George,  for  us ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

War.  How  now  ?  what  news  ? 
Mess.  The  duke  of  Norfolk  sends  you  word  by 
me, 
The  queen  is  coming  with  a  puissant  host ; 
And  craves  your  company  for  speedy  counsel. 
War.  Why  then  it  sorts,  brave  warriors  :  Let  'a 
away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Before  York. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Queen  Margaret,  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  Clifford,  and  Northum- 
berlanp,  with  Forces. 

Q.  Mar.  Welcome,  my  lord,  to  this  brave  town 
of  York. 
Yonder  's  the  head  of  that  arch  enemy, 
That  sought  to  be  encompass'd  with  your  crown? 
Doth  not  the  object  cheer  your  heart,  my  lord  ? 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  as  the  rocks  cheer  them  that  fear 
their  wreck ; — 
To  see  this  sight,  it  irks  my  very  soul. — 
Withhold  revenge,  dear  God  !  't  is  not  my  fault, 
Not  wittingly  have  I  infring'd  my  vow, 

Clif.  My  gracious  liege,  this  too  much  lenity 
And  harmful  pity,  must  be  laid  aside. 
To  whom  do  lions  cast  their  gentle  looks  1 
Not  to  the  beast  that  would  usurp  their  den. 
Whose  hand  is  that  the  forest  bear  doth  lick  ? 
Not  his,  that  spoils  her  young  before  her  face. 
Who  'scapes  the  lurking  serpent's  mortal  sting  ? 
Not  he,  that  sets  his  foot  upon  her  back. 
The  smallest  worm  will  turn,  being  trodden  on ; 
And  doves  will  peck,  in  safeguard  of  their  brood 
Ambitious  York  did  level  at  thy  crown. 
Thou  smiling,  while  he  knit  his  angry  brows  : 
He,  but  a  duke,  would  have  his  son  a  king. 
And  raise  his  issue,  like  a  loving  sire  ; 
Thou,  being  a  king,  bless'd  with  a  goodly  son, 
Didst  yield  consent  to  disinherit  him, 
Which  argued  thee  a  most  imloving  father. 
Unreasonable  creatures  feed  their  young  : 
And  though  man's  face  be  fearful  to  their  eyes, 
Yet,  in  protection  of  their  tender  ones. 
Who  hath  not  seen  them  (even  with  those  wings 
Which   sometime   they  have   us'd   with   fearful 
flight,) 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


fiCENB  n. 


Make  war  with  him  that  climb'd  unto  their  nest, 

Offering  their  own  lives  in  their  young's  defence? 

For  shame,  my  liege,  make  them  your  precedent ! 

Wei'e  it  not  pity  that  this  goodly  boy 

Should  lose  his  birthright  by  his  father's  fault ; 

And  long  hereafter  say  unto  his  child, — 

"  What  my  great-grandfather  and  grandsire  got. 

My  careless  father  fondly  gave  away  f ' 

Ah,  what  a  shame  were  this  !  Look  on  the  boy  ; 

And  let  his  manly  face,  which  promiseth 

Successful  fortune,  steel  thy  melting  heart, 

To  hold  thine  own,  and  leave  thine  own  with  him. 

K.  Hen.  Full  well  hath  Clifford  play'd  the  orator, 
Inferring  arguments  of  mighty  force. 
But,  Clifford,  tell  me,  didst  thou  never  hear, — 
That  things  ill  got  had  ever  bad  success  ? 
And  happy  always  was  it  for  that  son, 
Whose  father  for  his  hoarding  went  to  hell.'" 
I  '11  leave  my  son  my  virtuous  deeds  behind  ; 
And  'would,  my  father  had  left  me  no  more ! 
For  all  the  rest  is  held  at  such  a  rate. 
As  brings  a  thousand-fold  more  care  to  keep, 
Than  in  possession  any  jot  of  pleasure. 
Ah,   cousin  York !   'would  thy  best  friends   did 

know. 
How  it  doth  grieve  me  that  thy  head  is  here ! 

Q.  Mar.  My  lord,  cheer  up  your  spirits ;  our 
foes  are  nigh. 
And  this  soft  carriage  makes  your  followers  faint. 
You  promis'd  knighthood  to  our  forward  son ; 
Unsheath  your  sword,  and  dub  hira  presently. — 
Edward,  kneel  down. 

K.  Hen.  Edward  Plantagenet,  arise  a  knight ; 
And  lefl,rn  this  lesson, — Draw  thy  sword  in  right. 

Prince.  My   gracious  father,  by  your   kingly 
leave, 
I  'II  draw  it  as  apparent  to  the  crown, 
And  in  that  quarrel  use  it  to  the  death. 

Clif.  Why,  that  is  spoken  like  a  toward  prince. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Royal  commanders,  be  in  readiness  : 
For,  with  a  band  of  thirty  thousand  men, 
Comes  Warwick,  backing  of  the  duke  of  York ! 
And,  in  the  towns  as  they  do  march  along. 
Proclaims  him  king,  and  many  fly  to  him  : 
Darraign  your  battle,"  for  they  are  at  hand. 
Clif.  I  would,  your  highness  would  depart  the 
field; 
The  queen  hath  best  success  when  you  are  absent.'* 
Q.  Mar.  Ay,  good  my  lord,  and  leave  us  to 
our  fortune. 


K.  Hen.  Why,  that 's  my  fortune  too :  there- 
fore I  '11  stay. 
North.  Be  it  with  resolution  then  to  fight. 
Prince.  My    royal   father,  cheer   these   noble 
lords. 
And  hearten  those  that  fight  in  your  defence  : 
Unsheath  your  sword,  good  father ;  cry — "  Saint 
George !" 

March.    Enter  Edwakd,  George,  Richard,War- 
wiCK,  Norfolk,  Montague,  and  Soldiers. 

Edw.  Now,  perjur'd  Henry  !  wilt  thou  kneel  for 
grace. 
And  set  thy  diadem  upon  my  head ; 
Or  bide  the  mortal  fortune  of  the  field  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Go,  rate  thy  minions,  proud  insulting 
boy! 
Becomes  it  thee  to  be  thus  bold  in  terms. 
Before  thy  sovereign,  and  thy  lawful  king? 

Edw.  I  am  his  king,  and  he  should  bow  his 
knee ; 
I  was  adopted  heir  by  his  consent : 
Since  when,  his  oath  is  broke  ;  for,  as  I  hear, 
You — that  are    king,   though    he   do   wear   the 

crown, — 
Have  caus'd  him,  by  new  act  of  parliament. 
To  blot  out  me,  and  put  his  own  son  in. 

Clif.  And  reason  too  ; 
Who  should  succeed  the  father,  but  the  son  ? 
Rich.    Are  you   there,  butcher  ? — 0,  I  cannot 

speak  ! 
Clif  Ay,  crook-back  ;  here  I  stand,  to  answer 
thee. 
Or  any  he  the  proudest  of  thy  sort. 

Rich.  'T  was  you  that  kill'd  young  Rutland,  was 

it  not  ? 
Clif.  Ay,  and  old  York,  and  yet  not  satisfied. 
Rich.  For  God's  sake,  lords,  give  signal  to  the 

fight. 
War.  What  say'st  thou,  Henry,  wilt  thou  yield 

the  crown  ? 
Q.  Mar.  Why,  how  now,  long-tongu'd  War- 
wick ?  dare  you  speak  ? 
When  you  and  I  met  at  Saint  Albans  last, 
Your  legs  did  better  service  than  your  hands. 
War.  Then  't  was  my  turn  to  fly,  and  now  't  is 

thine. 
Clif.  You  said  so  much  before,  and  yet  you  fled. 
War.  'T  was   not  your  valour,  Clifford,  drove 

me  thence. 
North.  No,  nor  your  manhood,  that  durst  make 
you  stay. 

966 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENK   in. 


Rich.    Northumberland,  I  bold  tbee  reverent- 

ly;- 

Break  oil'  the  parle ;  for  scarce  I  can  refrain 
The  execution  of  my  big-swoln  heart 
Upon  that  Clifford,  that  cruel  child-killer. 

Chf.    I  slew  thy  father:  Call'st  thou  him  a 

child  ? 
Rich.    Ay,  like   a  dastard,  and  a  treacherous 
coward. 
As  thou  didst  kill  our  tender  brother  Rutland  ; 
But,  ere  sun-set,  I  '11  make  thee  curse  the  deed. 
K.  Hen.  Have  done  with  words,  my  lords,  and 

hear  me  speak. 
Q.  Mar.  Defy  them  then,  or  else  hold  close  thy 

lips. 
K.  Hen.  I  pr'ythee,  give  no  limits  to  my  tongue ; 
I  am  a  king,  and  privileg'd  to  speak. 

Clif.  My  liege,  the  wound,  that  bred  this  meet- 
ing here, 
Cannot  be  cur'd  by  words :  therefore  be  still. 

Rich.  Then,  executioner,  unsheath  thy  sword: 
By  Him  that  made  us  all,  I  am  resolv'd. 
That  Clitford's  manhood  lies  upon  his  tongue. 

Edw.  Say,  Henry,  shall  I  have  my  right,  or  no? 
A  thousand  men  have  broke  their  fasts  to-day. 
That  ne'er  shall  dine,  unless  thou  yield  the  crown. 
War.  If  thou  deny,  their  blood  upon  thy  head; 
For  York  in  justice  puts  his  armour  on. 

Prince.  If  that  be  right,  which  Warwick  says 
is  right. 
There  is  no  wrong,  but  Qwery  thing  is  right. 
Rich.    Whoever   got   thee,   there   thy  mother 
stands ; 
For,  well  I  wot,  thou  hast  thy  mother's  tongue. 
Q.  Mar.  But  thou  art  neither  like  thy  sire,  nor 
dam : 
But  like  a  foul  misshapen  stigmatic," 
Mark'd  by  the  destinies  to  be  avoided, 
As  venom  toads,  or  lizards'  dreadful  stings. 

Rich.  Iron  of  Naples,  hid  with  English  gilt, 
Whose  father  bears  the  title  of  a  king, 
(As  if  a  channel  should  be  call'd  the  sea,)" 
Sham'st  thou  not,  knowing  whence  thou  art  ex- 

traught, 
I'o  let  thy  tongue  detect  thy  base-born  heart  ? 
Edw.  A  wisp  of  straw"  were  worth  a  thousand 
crowns. 
To  make  this  shameless  callet  know  herself. — 
Helen  of  Greece  was  fairer  far  than  thou, 
Although  thy  husband  may  be  Menelaus;'® 
And  ne'er  was  Agamemnon's  brother  wrong'd 
By  that  false  woman,  as  this  king  by  thee. 


His  father  revell'd  in  the  heart  of  France, 

And    tam'd    the  king,  and   made   the  Dauphin 

stoop ; 
And,  had  he  match'd  according  to  his  state, 
He  might  have  kept  that  glory  to  this  day : 
But,  when  he  took  a  beggar  to  his  bed. 
And  grac'd  thy  poor  sire  with  his  bridal  day ; 
Even  then  that  sunshine  brew'd  a  shower  for  him, 
That  wash'd  his  father's  fortunes  forth  of  France, 
And  heap'd  sedition  on  his  crown  at  home. 
For  what  hath  broach'd  this  tumult,  but  thy  pride? 
Hadst  thou  been  meek,  our  title  still  had  slept ; 
And  we,  in  pity  of  the  gentle  king. 
Had  slipp'd  our  claim  until  another  age. 

Geo.  But,  when  we  saw  our  sunshine  made  thy 
spring. 
And  that  thy  summer  bred  us  no  increase, 
We  set  the  axe  to  thy  usurping  root : 
And   though  the   edge   hath   something  hit  our- 
selves. 
Yet,  know  thou,  since  we  have  begun  to  strike. 
We  '11  never  leave,  till  we  have  hewn  thee  down, 
Or  bath'd  thy  growing  with  our  heated  bloods. 

Edw.  And,  in  this  resolution,  I  defy  thee; 
Not  willing  any  longer  conference. 
Since  thou  deny'st  the  gentle  king  to  speak. — 
Sound  trumpets! — let  our  bloody  colours  wave! — ■ 
And  either  victory,  or  else  a  grave. 
Q.  Mar.  Stay,  Edward. 

Edw.  No,  wrangling  woman ;  we  '11  no  longer 
stay  :— 
These  words  will  cost  ten  thousand  lives  to-day. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— Jl  Field  of  Battle  between  Towton 
and  Saxton  in  Yorkshire. 

Alarums :  Excursions.     Enter  Warwick. 

War.    Forspent  with  toil,  as  runners  with  a 

race, 
I  lay  me  down  a  little  while  to  breathe  : 
For  strokes  receiv'd,  and  many  blows  repaid, 
Have   robb'd   my   strong-knit   sinews     of    their 

strength. 
And,  spite  of  spite,  needs  must  t  rest  awhile. 

Enter  Edward,  running. 

Edw.  Smile,  gentle  heaven !  or  strike,  ungentle 
death  ! 
For  this  world  frowns,  and  Edward's  sun  is  clouded. 
War.    How  now,  ray  lord  ?  what  hap  ?  what 
hope  of  good  ? 


ACT    II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    IV— V. 


Enter  George. 

Geo.  Our  hap  is  loss,  our  hope  but  sad  despair ; 
Our  ranks  are  broke,  and  ruin  follows  us: 
What  counsel  give  you,  whitjier  shall  we  fly  ? 

Edw.    Bootless  is  flight,   they  follow  us  with 
wings ; 
And  weak  we  are,  and  cannot  shun  pursuit. 

Enter  Richard. 

Mich.  Ah,  Warwick,  why  hast  thou  withdrawn 

thyself? 
Thy  brother's  blood  the  thirsty  earth  hath  drunk, 
Broach'd  with  the  steely  point  of  Clifibrd's  lance : 
And,  in  the  very  pangs  of  death,  he  cried, — 
Like  to  a  dismal  clangor  heard  from  far, — 
"  Warwick,  revenge  !  brother,  revenge  my  death  1" 
So  underneath  the  belly  of  their  steeds. 
That  stain'd  their  fetlocks  in  his  smoking  blood, 
The  noble  gentleman  gave  up  the  ghost. 

War.  Then  let  the  earth  be  drunken  with  our 

blood  ; 
I  '11  kill  my  horse,  because  I  will  not  fly. 
Why  stand  we  like  soft-hearted  women  here, 
Wailing  our  losses,  whiles  the  foe  doth  rage  ; 
And  look  upon,  as  if  the  tragady 
Were  play'd  in  jest  by  counterfeiting  actors  ? 
ilere  on  my  knee  I  vow  to  God  above, 
I  '11  never  pause  again,  never  stand  still, 
Till  either  death  hath  clos'd  these  eyes  of  mine, 
Or  fortune  given  me  measure  of  revenge. 

Edw.    O  Warwick,  I  do   bend   my  knee  with 

thine ; 
And,  in  this  vow,  do  chain  my  soul  to  thine. — 
And,  ere  my  knee  rise  from  the  earth's  cold  face, 
I  throw  my  hands,  mine  eyes,  my  heart  to  Thee, 
Thou  setter  up  and  plucker  down  of  kings ! 
Beseeching  Thee, — if  with  Thy  will  it  stands, 
That  to  my  foes  this  body  must  be  prey, — 
Yet  that  Thy  brazen  gates  of  heaven  may  ope, 
And  give  sweet  passage  to  my  sinful  soul ! — 
Now,  lords,  take  leave  until  we  meet  again, 
Where-e'er  it  be,  in  heaven,  or  on  earth. 

Rich.  Brother,  give  me  thy  hand ; — and,  gentle, 

Warwick, 
Let  me  embrace  thee  in  my  weary  arms : 
I,  that  never  did  weep,  now  melt  with  woe. 
That  winter  should  cut  off  our  spring-time  so. 
War.    Away,  away  !     Once  more,  sweet  lords, 

farewell. 
Geo.  Yet  let  us  all  together  to  our  troops, 
And  give  them  leave  to  fly  that  will  not  stay ; 


And  call  them  pillars,  that  will  stand  to  us ; 
And,  if  we  thrive,  promise  them  such  rewards 
As  victors  wear  at  the  Olympian  games : 
This  may  plant  courage  in  their  quailing  breasts ! 
For  yet  is  hope  of  life,  and  victory. — 
Fore-slow  no  longer,  make  me  hence  amain. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  lY.—The  Same.     Another  Fart  of  the 
Field. 

Excursions.    Enter  Richard  and  Clifford. 

Hick.  Now,  Clifford,  I  have  singled  thee  alone : 
Suppose,  this  arm  is  for  the  duke  of  York, 
And  this  for  Rutknd ;  both  bound  to  revenge, 
Wert  thou  environ'd  with  a  brazen  wall. 

Clif.  Now,  Richard,  I  am  with  thee  here  alone : 
This  is  the  hand,  that  stabb'd  thy  father  York ; 
And  this  the  hand  that  slew  thy  brother  Rutland; 
And  here 's  the  heart,  that  triumphs  in  their  death. 
And  cheers  these  bands,  that  slew  thy  sire  and 

brother. 
To  execute  the  like  upon  thyself; 
And  so,  have  at  thee. 

[Thej/ fght.     Wah.  enters  ;  Clif.  Jlies. 

Rich.    Nay,  Warwick,  single  out  some  other 
chase ; 
For  I  myself  will  hunt  this  wolf  to  death.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Alarum.     Enter  King  Henrt. 

K.  Hen.  This  battle  fares  like  to  the  morning  a 
war. 
When  dying  clouds  contend  with  growing  light ; 
What  time  the  shepherd,  blowing  of  his  nails, 
Can  neither  call  it  perfect  day,  nor  night. 
Now  sways  it  this  way,  like  a  mighty  sea, 
Forc'd  by  the  tide  to  combat  with  the  wind ; 
Now  sways  it  that  way,  like  the  self-same  sea 
Forc'd  to  retire  by  fury  of  the  wind  : 
Sometime,  the  flood  prevails  ;  and  then,  the  wind ; 
Now,  one  the  better ;  then,  another  best ; 
Both  tugging  to  be  victors,  breast  to  breast. 
Yet  neither  conqueror,  nor  conquered : 
So  is  the  equal  poise  of  this  fell  war. 
Here  on  this  molehill  will  I  sit  me  down. 
To  whom  God  will,  there  be  the  victory  I 
For  Margaret  my  queen,  and  Clifford  too. 
Have  chid  me  from  the  battle ;  swearing  bojh, 
They  prosper  best  of  all  when  I  am  thence. 
Would  I  were  dead  !  if  God's  good  will  were  sec 

967 


ACT   II. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


For  what  is  in  this  world,  but  grief  and  woe  ? 

0  God !  raethinks,  it  were  a  happy  life, 

To  be  no  better  than  a  homely  swain  ; 

To  sit  upon  a  hill,  as  I  do  now, 

To  carve  out  dials  quaintly,  point  by  point, 

Thereby  to  see  the  minutes  how  they  run  : 

How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete. 

How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day. 

How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year, 

How  many  years  a  mortal  man  may  live. 

When  this  is  known,  then  to  divide  the  times  : 

So  many  hour«  must  I  tend  my  flock ; 

So  many  hours  must  I  take  my  rest ; 

So  many  hours  must  I  contemplate  ; 

So  many  hours  must  I  sport  myself; 

So  many  days  my  ewes  have  been  with  young ; 

So  many  weeks  ere  the  poor  fools  will  yean  ; 

So  many  years  ere  I  shall  shear  the  fleece ; 

So  minutes,  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  and  years, 

Pass'd  over  to  the  end  they  were  created, 

"Would  bring  white  hairs  unto  a  quiet  grave. 

Ah,  what  a  life  were  this  !  how  sweet !  how  lovely ! 

Gives  not  the  hawthorn  bush  a  sweeter  shade 

To  shepherds,  looking  on  their  silly  sheep, 

Than  doth  a  rich  embroider'd  canopy 

To  kings,  that  fear  their  subjects'  treachery  ? 

0,  yes  it  doth  ;  a  thousand  fold  it  doth. 

And  to  conclude, — the  shepherd's  homely  curds, 

His  cold  thin  drink  out  of  his  leather  bottle. 

His  wonted  sleep  under  a  fresh  tree's  shade, 

All  which  secure  and  sweetly  he  enjoys, 

Is  far  beyond  a  prince's  delicates. 

His  viands  sparkling  in  a  golden  cup. 

His  body  couched  in  a  curious  bed. 

When  care,  mistrust,  and  treason  wait  on  him. 

Alarum.     Entir  a  Son  that  has  killed  his  father, 
drag/inff  in  the  dead  Body. 

Son.  Ill  blows  the  wind,  that  profits  no-body. — 
This  man,  whom  hand  to  hand  I  slew  in  fight. 
May  be  possessed  with  some  store  of  crowns  : 
And  I,  that  haply  take  them  from  him  now, 
May  yet  ere  night  yield  both  my  life  and  them 
To  some  man  else,  as  this  dead  man  doth  me. — 
Who  's  this  ? — O  God  1  it  is  my  father's  face. 
Whom  in  this  conflict  I  unwares  have  kill'd. 
0  heavy  times,  begetting  such  events ! 
From  London  by  the  king  was  I  press'd  forth ; 
My  father,  being  the  earl  of  Warwick's  man, 
Came,on  the  part  of  York,  press'd  by  his  master ; 
And  I,  who  at  his  hands  receiv'd  my  life, 
Have  by  my  hands  of  life  bereaved  him. — 

0B8 


Pardon  me,  God,  I  knew  not  what  I  did  ! 
And  pardon,  father,  for  I  knew  not  thee  !  — 
My  tears  shall  wipe  away  these  bloody  marks ;   . 
And  no  more  words,  till  they  have  flow'd  their  fill. 
K.  Hen.  0  piteoi]^  spectacle  !  O  bloody  times  ! 
vVhilst  lions  war,  and  battle  for  their  dens, 
Poor  harmless  lambs  abide  their  enmity. — 
Weep,  wretched  man,  I  '11  aid  thee  tear  for  tear ; 
And  let  our  hearts,  and  eyes,  like  civil  war. 
Be  blind  with  tears,  and  break  o'ercharg'd  with 
grief. 

Enter  a  Father,  loho  has  killed  his  Son,  toith  the. 
Body  in  his  Arms. 

Fath.  Thou  that  so  stoutly  hath  resisted  me. 
Give  me  thy  gold,  if  thou  hast  any  gold ; 
For  I  have  bought  it  with  an  hundred  blows. — 
But  let  me  see  : — is  this  our  foeman's  face  ? 
Ah,  no,  no,  no,  it  is  mine  only  son ! — 
Ah,  boy,  if  any  life  be  left  in  thee. 
Throw  up  thine  eye  ;  see,  see,  what  showers  arise, 
Blown  with  the  windy  tempest  of  my  heart. 
Upon  thy  wounds,  that  kill  mine  eye  and  heart !  -^ 
O,  pity,  God,  this  miserable  age ! — 
What  stratagems,  how  fell,  how  butcherly, 
Erroneous,  mutinous,  and  unnatural, 
This  deadly  quarrel  daily  doth  beget ! — 
O  boy,  thy  father  gave  thee  life  too  soon, 
And  hath  bereft  thee  of  thy  life  too  late  !'^ 

K.  Hen.    Woe  above  woe !    grief  more  than 
common  grief! 
0,  that  my  death  would  stay  these  rulhful  deeds  ! — 
0  pity,  pity,  gentle  heaven,  pity  ! — 
The  red  rose  and  the  white  are  on  his  face. 
The  fatal  colours  of  our  striving  houses  ; 
The  one,  his  purple  blood  right  well  resembles ; 
The  other,  his  pale  cheeks,  methinks,  present : 
Wither  one  rose,  and  let  the  other  flourish  ! 
If  you  contend,  a  thousand  lives  must  wither. 

Son.  How  will  my  mother,  for  a  father's  death, 
Take  on  with  me,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied ! 

Fath.  How  will  my  wife,  for  slaughter  of  my 
son, 
Shed  seas  of  tears,  and  ne'er  be  satisfied  ! 

K.  Hen.  How  wiH  the  country,  for  these  woful 
chances, 
Misthink  the  king,  and  not  be  satisfied  ! 

Son.  Was  ever  son,  so  ru'd  a  father's  death  f 

Fath.  Was  ever  father,  so  bemoan'd  a  son  ? 

K.  Hen.  Was  ever  king,  so  griev'd  for  subjects' 
woe  ? 
Much  is  your  sorrow ;  mine,  ten  times  so  much. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCKNE    VI 


Son.  I  '11  bear  tliee  hence,  where  I  may  weep 
my  fill.  [Exit,  with  the  Body. 

Fath.  These  arras  of  mine  shall  be  thy  wind- 
ing-sheet ; 
My  heart,  sweet  boy,  shall  be  thy  sepulchre ! 
For  from  my  heart  thine  image  ne'er  shall  go, 
My  sighing  breast  shall  be  thy  funeral  bell : 
And  so  obsequious  will  thy  father  be,'* 
Sad  for  the  loss  of  thee,  having  no  more, 
As  Priam  was  for  all  his  valiant  sons. 
I  '11  bear  thee  hence  ;  and  let  them  fight  that  will, 
For  I  have  raurder'd  where  I  should  not  kill. 

[E.cit,  ivith  the  Body. 
K.  Hen.  Sad-hearted  men,  much  overgone  with 
care, 
Here  sits  a  king  more  woful  than  you  are. 

Alarums  :  Excursions.    Enter  Queen  Margaret, 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  Exeter. 

Prince.  Fly,  father,  fly  !  for  all  your  friends  are 
fled, 
And  Warwick  rages  like  a  chafed  bull : 
Away !  for  death  doth  hold  us  in  pursuit. 

Q.  Mar.  Mount  you,  my  lord,  towards  Berwick 
post  amain : 
Edward  and  Richard,  like  a  brace  of  greyhounds 
Having  the  fearful  flying  hare  in  sight, 
With  fiery  eyes,  sparkling  for  very  wrath. 
And  bloody  steel  grasp'd  in  their  ireful  hands, 
Are  at  our  backs ;  and  therefore  hence  amain. 
Exe.  Away !  for  vengeance  comes  along  with 
.  them : 
Nay,  stay  not  to  expostulate,  make  speed ; 
Or  else  come  after,  I '11  away  before. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  take  me  with  thee,  good  sweet 
Exeter ; 
Not  that  I  fear  to  stay,  but  love  to  go 
Whither  the  queen  intends.     Forward  ;  away  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  yi.— The  Same. 
A  loud  Alarum,.     Enter  Clifford,  xvounded. 

Clif.  Here  burns  my  candle  out,  ay,  here  it  dies. 
Which,  while  it  lasted,  gave  king  Henry  light. 
0,  Lancaster  !  I  fear  thy  overthrow, 
More  thaa  my  body's  parting  with  my  soul. 
My  love,  and  fear,  glew'd  many  friends  to  thee ; 
And,  now  I  fall,  thy  tough  commixtures  melt. 
Impairing  Henry,  strength'ning  mis-proud  York, 
The  common  people  swarm  like  summer  flies : 
And  v/hither  fly  the  gnats,  but  to  the  sun  ? 

122 


And  who  shines  now  but  Henry's  enemies  ? 

0  Phoebus  !  hadst  thou  never  given  consent 
That  Phaeton  should  check  thy  fiery  steeds. 
Thy  burning  car  never  had  scorch'd  the  earth : 
And,  Henry,  had'st  thou  sway'd  as  kings  should 

do, 
Or  as  thy  father,  and  his  father,  did, 
Giving  no  ground  unto  the  house  of  York, 
They  never  then  had  sprung  like  summer  flies ; 
T,  and  ten  thousand  in  this  luckless  rea'im, 
Had  left  no  mourning  widows  for  our  death. 
And  thou  this  day  hadst  kept  thy  chair  in  peace. 
For  what  doth  cherish  weeds  but  gentle  air  ? 
And  what  makes    robbers    bold,  but  too  much 

lenity  ? 
Bootless  are  plaints,  and  cureless  are  my  wounds ; 
No  way  to  fly,  nor  strength  to  hold  out  flight : 
The  foe  is  merciless,  and  will  not  pity  ; 
For,  at  their  hands,  I  have  deserv'd  no  pity. 
The  air  hath  got  into  my  deadly  wounds, 
And  much  efl"u8e  of  blood  doth  make  me  faint : — 
Come,  York,  and  Richard,  Warwick,  and  the  rest ; 

1  stabb'd  your  fether's  bosom,  split  my  breast. 

[He  faints. 

Alarum  and  Retreat.     Enter  Edward,  George, 
Richard,  Montague,  Warwick,  and  Soldiers. 

Edw.  Now,  breathe  we,  lords ;    good  fortune 
bids  us  pause. 
And  smooth   the   frowns  of  war  with    peaceful 

looks. — 
Some  troops  pursue  the  bloody-minded  queen  ; — 
That  led  calm  Henry,  though  he  were  a  king, 
As  doth  a  sail,  fiU'd  with  a  fretting  gust. 
Command  an  argosy  to  stem  the  waves. 
But  think  you,  lords,  that  Clifford  fled  with  them  ? 

War.  No,  't  is  impossible  he  should  escape : 
For,  though  before  his  face  I  speak  the  words, 
Your  brother  Richard  mark'd  him  for  the  grave: 
And,  wheresoe'er  he  is,  he  's  surely  dead. 

[Clif.  groans  and  dies. 
Edw.  Whose  soul  is  that  which  takes  her  heavy 

leave  ? 
Rich.  A  deadly  groan,  like  life  and  death's  de- 
parting. 
Edw.  See  who  it  is :    and,  now  the  battle  's 
ended. 
If  friend,  or  foe,  let  him  be  gently  us'd. 

Rich.  Revoke  that  doom  of  mercy,  for  'tis  Clif- 
ford ; 
Who  not  contented  that  he  lopp'd  the  branch 
In  hewing  Rutland  when  his  leaves  put  forth, 

S69 


THIRD  PART  OF 


But  set  his  murdering  knife  unto  the  root 

From  whence  that  tender  spray  did  sweetly  spring ; 

I  mean,  our  princely  father,  duke  of  York. 

War.  From  off  the  gates  of  York  fetch  down 
the  head, 
Your  father's  head,  which  Clifford  placed  there  : 
Instead  whereof,  let  this  supply  the  room ; 
Measure  for  measure  must  be  answered. 

Udw.  Bring  forth  that  fatal  screech-owl  to  our 
house. 
That  nothing  sung  but  death  to  us  and  ours : 
Now  death  shall  stop  his  dismal  threatening  sound, 
And  his  ill-boding  tongue  no  more  shall  speak. 

[Attendants  brinff  the  Body  forward. 
War.  I  think  his  understanding  is  bereft : — 
Speak,  Clifford,  dost  thou  know  who  speaks  to 

thee  ? 
.Dark  cloudy  death  o'ershades  his  beams  of  life, 
And  he  nor  sees,  nor  hears  us  what  we  say. 

Rich.  O,  'would  he  did !  and  so,  perhaps,  he  doth ; 
'T  is  but  his  policy  to  counterfeit. 
Because  he  would  avoid  such  bitter  taunts 
Which  in  the  time  of  death  he  gave  our  father. 
Geo.  If  so   thou   think'st,  vex  him  with  eager 

words. 
Rich.  Clifford,  ask  mercy,  and  obtain  no  grace. 
Edw.  Clifford,  repent  in  bootless  penitence. 
War.  Clifford,  devise  excuses  for  thy  faults. 
Geo.  While  we  devise  fell  tortures  for  thy  faults. 
Rich.  Thou  didst  love  York,  and  I  am  son  to 

York. 
Edto.  Thou  pitied'st  Rutland,  I  will  pity  thee. 
Geo.  Where  's  captain  Margaret,  to  fence  you 

now? 
War.  They  mock  thee,  Clifford !  swear  as  thou 

wast  wont. 
Rich.  What,  not  an  oath  ?  nay,  then  the  world 
goes  hard, 


When  Clifford  cannot  spare  his  friends  an  oath  :-  - 
I  know  by  that,  he 's  dead  :  And,  by  ray  soul, 
If  this  right  hand  would  buy  two  hours'  life, 
That  I  in  all  despite  might  rail  at  him, 
This  hand  should  chop  it  off;  and  with  the  issuing 

blood  , 

Stifle  the  villain,  whose  unstanched  thirst 
York  and  young  Rutland  could  not  satisfy. 

War.  Ay,  but  he 's  dead :  Off  with  the  traitor'a 

head. 
And  rear  it  in  the  place  your  father's  stands. — 
And  now  to  London  with  triumphant  march. 
There  to  bo  crowned  England's  royal  king. 
From  whence  shall  Warwick  cut  the  sea  to  France, 
And  ask  the  lady  Bona  for  thy  queen : 
So  shalt  thou  sinew  both  these  lands  together ; 
And,  having  France   thy  friend,  thou  shalt  not 

dread 
The  scattcr'd  foe,  that  hopes  to  rise  again  ; 
For  though  they  cannot  greatly  sting  to  hurt. 
Yet  look  to  have  them  buzz,  to  offend  thine  ears. 
First,  will  I  see  the  coronation ; 
And  then  to  Brittany  I  '11  cross  the  sea. 
To  effect  this  marriage,  so  it  please  my  lord. 
JSdw.    Even  as  thou  wilt,  sweet  W'arwick,  let 

it  be  : 
For  on  thy  shoulder  do  I  build  my  seat ; 
And  never  will  I  undertake  the  thing, 
Wherein  thy  counsel  and  consent  is  wanting. — 
Richard,  I  will  create  thee  duke  of  Gloster  ; 
And  George,  of  Clarence ; — Warwick,  as  ourself, 
Shall  do,  and  undo,  as  him  pleaseth  best. 

Rich.  Let  me  be  duke  of  Clarence ;  George  of 

Gloster  ; 
For  Gloster's  dukedom  is  too  ominous.'^ 

War.  Tut,  that 's  a  foolish  observation. 
Richard,  be  duke  of  Gloster :  Now  to  London, 
To  see  these  honours  in  possession.  \Exeunt 


ACT  III. 

^CENE  I. — A  Chase  in  the  North  of  England 


Enter  Two   Keepers,  with    Cross-hows   in    their 
Hands. 

\st  Keep.  Under  this  thick-grown  brake  we  '11 
shroud  ourselves ; 

970 


For   through    this   laund*"   anon'  the   deer   will 

come ; 
And  in  this  covert  will  we  make  our  stand, 
Culling  the  principal  of  all  the  deer. 

Ind  Keep.  I  '11  stay  above  the  hill,  so  J^oth  may 

shoot 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENB    I. 


1st  Keep.    That  cannot  be  ;    the  noise  of  thy 
cross-bow 
Will  scare  the  herd,  and  so  my  shoot  is  lost. 
Here  stand  we  both,  and  aim  we  at  the  best : 
And,  for  the  time  shall  not  seem  tedious, 
I  '11  tell  thee  what  befell  me  on  a  day. 
In  this  self-place  where  now  we  mean  to  stand. 
2nd  Keep.  Here  comes  a  man,  let 's  stay  till  he 
be  past. 

Enter  King   Henry  disguised,  with  a   Prayer- 
hook. 

K.  Hen.  From  Scotland  am  I  stol'n,  even  of 

pure  love. 
To  greet  mine  own  land  with  ray  wishful  sight. 
No,  Harry,  Harry,  't  is  no  land  of  thine; 
Thy  place  is  fill'd,  thy  sceptre  wrung  from  thee. 
Thy    balm     wash'd     ofi'    wherewith    thou   wast 

anointed  : 
No  bending  knee  will  call  thee  Caesar  now, 
No  humble  suitoi-s  press  to  speak  for  right. 
No,  not  a  man  comes  for  redress  of  thee  ; 
For  bow  can  I  help  them,  and  not  myself? 

\st  Keep.    Ay,  here  's  a  deer  whose  skin  's  a 

keeper's  fee  : 
This  is  the  quondam  king  ;  let  's  seize  upon  him. 
K.  Hen.    Let  me  embrace   these  four  adver- 
sities ; 
For  wise  men  say,  it  is  the  wisest  course. 

Ind  Keep.  Why  linger  we  ?  let  us  lay  hands 

upon  him. 
\st  Keep.  Forbear  a  while ;  we  '11  hear  a  little 

more. 
K.  Hen.  My  queen,  and  son,  are  gone  to  France 

for  aid ; 
And,  as  I  hear,  the  great  commanding  Warwick 
Is  thither  gone,  to  crave  the  French  king's  sister 
To  wife  for  Edward  :  If  this  news  be  true. 
Poor  queen,  and  son,  your  labour  is  but  lost ; 
For  Warwick  is  a  subtle  orator, 
And  Lewis  a  prince  soon  won  with  moving  words. 
By  this  account,  then,  Margaret  may  win  him ; 
For  she  's  a  woman  to  be  pitied  much  : 
Her  sighs  will  make  a  battery  in  his  breast ; 
Her  tears  will  pierce  into  a  marble  heart ; 
The  tiger  will  be  mild,  while  she  doth  mourn ; 
And  Nero  will  be  tainted  with  remoi-se. 
To  hear,  and  see,  her  plaints,  her  brinish  tears. 
Ay,  but  she  's  come  to  beg ;  Warwick,  to  give : 
She,  on  his  left  side,  craving  aid  for  Henry ; 
He,  on  his  right,  asking  a  wife  for  Edward. 
Bhe  weeps,  aud  says — her  Henry  is  depos'd  ; 


He  smiles,  and  says — his  Edward  is  install'd  ; 
That  she,  poor  wretch,  for  grief  can  speak  no  more 
Whiles  Warwick  tells  his  title,  smooths  the  wrong, 
Inferreth  arguments  of  mighty  strength  ; 
And,  in  conclusion,  wins  the  king  from  her, 
With  promise  of  his  sister,  and  what  else. 
To  strengthen  and  support  king  Edward's  place. 
O  Margaret,  thus  't  will  be ;  and  thou,  poor  soul, 
Art  then  forsaken,  as  thou  went'st  forlorn. 

Ind  Keep.  Say,  what  art  thou,  that  talk'st  of 

kings  and  queens  ? 
K.  Hen.  More  than  I  seem,  and  less  than  I  was 
born  to  : 
A  man  at  least,  for  less  I  should  not  be  ; 
And  men  may  talk  of  kings,  and  why  not  I  ? 
'ind  Keep.  Ay,  but  thou  talk'st  as  if  thou  wert 

a  king. 
K.  Hen.  Why,  so  I  am,  in  mind  ;  and  that 's 

enough. 
Ind  Keep.  But,  if  thou  be  a  king,  where  is  thy 

crown  ? 
K.  Hen.  My  crown  is  in  my  heart,  not  on  my 
head ; 
Not  deck'd  with  diamonds,  and  Indian  stones. 
Nor  to  be  seen  :  my  crown  is  call'd,  content ; 
A  crown  it  is,  that  seldom  kings  enjoy. 

Ind  Keep.  Well,  if  you  be  a  king  crown'd  with 
content, 
Your  crown  content,  and  you,  must  be  contented 
To  go  along  with  us :  for,  as  we  think, 
You  are  the  king,  king  Edward  hath  depos'd  ; 
And  we  his  subjects,  sworn  in  all  allegiance. 
Will  apprehend  you  as  his  enemy. 

K.  Hen.  But  did  you  never  swear,  and  break 

an  oath  ? 
Ind  Keep.  No,  nevei  such  an  oath,  nor  will  not 

now. 
K.  Hen.  Where  did  you  dwell,  when  I  was  king 

of  England  ? 
2nd  Keep.  Here  in  this  country,  where  we  now 

remain. 
K.  Hen.  I  was  anointed  king  at  nine  months 
old; 
My  father  and  my  grandfather,  were  kings  ; 
And  you  were  sworn  true  subjects  unto  me : 
And,  tell  me  then,  have  you  not  broke  your  oaths  ? 

\st  Keep.  No ; 
For  we  were  subjects,  but  while  you  were  king. 
K.  Hen.  Why,  am  I  dead  ?  do  I  not  breathe  a 
man  ? 
Ah,  simple  men,  you  know  not  what  you  swear. 
Look,  as  I  blow  this  feather  from  my  face, 

971 


ACT    III. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENK   n. 


And  as  the  air  blows  it  to  me  again, 
Obeying  with  ray  wind  when  I  do  blow, 
And  yielding  to  another  when  it  blows, 
Commanded  always  by  the  greater  gust ; 
Such  is  the  lightness  of  you  common  men. 
]3ut  do  not  break  your  oaths  ;  for,  of  that  sin 
My  mild  entreaty  shall  not  make  you  guilty. 
Go  where  you  will,  the  king  shall  be  commanded  ; 
And  be  you  kings ;  command,  and  I  '11  obey. 

1st  Keep.  We  are  true  subjects  to  the   king, 
king  Edward. 

J^.  Hen.  So  would  you  be  again  to  Henry, 
If  he  were  seated  as  king  Edward  is. 

\st  Keep.  We  charge  you,  in  God's  name,  and 
in  the  king's. 
To  go  with  us  unto  the  officers. 

K.  Hen.  In    God's  name,  lead ;    your   king's 
name  be  obey'd : 
And  what  God  will,  then  let  your  king  perform ; 
And  what  he  will,  I  humbly  yield  unto.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Edward,  Gloster,  Clarence   and 
Lady  Grey. 

K.  Edw.  Brother  of  Gloster,  at  Saint  Albans' 
field 
This  lady's  husband,  sir  John  Grey,  was  slain. 
His  lands  then  seiz'd  on  by  the  conqueror : 
Her  suit  is  now,  to  repossess  those  lands : 
Which  we  injustice  cannot  well  deny, 
Because  in  quarrel  of  the  house  of  York 
The  worthy  gentleman  did  lose  his  hfe.^' 

Glo.  Your  highness  shall  do  well,  to  grant  her 
suit ; 
It  were  dishonour,  to  deny  it  her. 

K.  Edw.  It  were  no  less  ;  but  yet  I  '11  make  a 

pause. 
Qlo.  Yea !  is  it  so  ? 
I  see,  the  lady  hath  a  thing  to  grant, 
Before  the  king  will  grant  her  humble  suit. 

Clar.  He  knows  the  game  :  How  true  he  keeps 
the  wind !  \Aside. 

Olo.  Silence  !  \^Aside. 

K,  Edw,  Widow,  we  will  consider  of  your  suit ; 
And  come  some  other  time,  to  know  our  mind. 
L.  Grey.  Right  gracious  lord,  I  cannot  brook 
delay : 
May  it  please  your  highness  to  resolve  me  now ; 
And  what  your  pleasure  is,  shall  satisfy  me. 
Glo.  [Aside."]  Ay,  widow  ?  then  I  '11  warrant 
you  all  your  lands. 
972 


An  if  what  pleases  him,  shall  pleasure  you. 
Fight  closer,  or,  good  faith,  you  '11  catch  a  blow, 
Clar.  I  fear  her  not,  unless  she  chance  to  fall. 

[^Aside, 
Glo.  God  forbid  that !  for  he  '11  take  vantages. 

\^Aside. 
K.  Edw.  How  many  children  hast  thou,  wid- 
ow ?  tell  me. 
Clar.  I  think,  he  means  to  beg  a  child  of  her. 

\Aside. 
Glo.  Nay,  whip  me  then  ;  he  '11  rather  give  her 

two.  {Aside. 

L.  Grey.  Three,  my  most  gracious  lord. 
Glo.  You  shall  have  four,  if  you  '11  be  rul'd  by 

him.  \Aside. 

K.  Edw.  'T  were  pity  they  should  lose  their 

father's  land. 
L.  Grey.  Be  pitiful,  dread  lord,  and  grant  it  then. 
K.  Edw.  Lords,  give  us  leave ;    I  '11   try  this 

widow's  wit. 
Glo.  Ay,  good  leave  have  you ;    for  you  will 

have  leave. 
Till  youth  take  leave,  and  leave  you  to  the  crutch. 
[Glo.  and  Clar.  retire  to  the  other  side. 
K.  Edw.  Now,  tell  me,  madam,  do  you  love 

your  children  ? 
L.  Grey.  Ay,  full  as  dearly  as  I  love  myself. 
K.  Edw.  And  would  you  not  do  much,  to  do 

them  good  ? 
L.  Grey.  To  do  them  good,  I  would   sustain 

some  harm. 
K.  Edw.  Then  get  your  husband's  lands,  to  do 

them  good. 
L.  Grey.  Therefore  I  came  unto  your  majesty. 
K.  Edw.  I  '11  tell  you  how  these  lands  are  to 

be  got. 
L.  Grey.  So  shall  you  bind  me  to  your  high- 
ness' service. 
K.  Edw.  What  service  wilt  thou  do  me,  if  I 

give  them  ? 
L.  Grey.  What  you  command,  that  rests  in  me 

to  do. 
K.  Edw.  But  you  will  take  exceptions  to  my 

boon. 
L.  Grey.   No,  gracious  lord,  except  I  cannot 

do  it. 
K.  Edw.  Ay,  but  thou  canst  do  what  I  mean 

to  ask. 
L.  Grey.  Why,  then  I  will  do  what  your  grace 

commands. 
Glo.  He  plies  her  hard  ;  and  much  rain  wears 

the  marble.  [Aside. 


ACT    III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    II. 


Clar.  As  led  as  fire !  nay,  then  her  wax  must 

melt.  [Aside. 

L.  Grey.  Why  stops  my  lord  ?  shall  I  not  hear 

my  task  ? 
K.  Edw.  An  easy  task  ;  't  is  but  to  love  a  king. 
L.  Grey.  That  's  soon  perform'd,  because  I  am 

a  subject. 
K.  Edw.    Why  then,  thy   husband's  lands  I 

freely  give  thee. 
L,  Grey.  I  take  my  leave  with  many  thousand 

thanks. 
Glo.  The  match  is  made ;  she  seals  it  with  a 

curt'sy. 
K.  Edw.  But  stay  thee,  't  is  the  fruits  of  love 

1  mean. 
L.  Grey.  The  fruits  of  love  I  mean,  my  loving 

liege. 
K.  Edw.  Ay,  but,  I  fear  me,  in  another  sense. 
What  love,  think'st  thou,  I  sue  so  much  to  get  ? 
L.  Grey.  My  love  till  death,  my  humble  thanks, 

my  prayers ; 
That  love,  which  virtue  begs,  and  virtue  grants. 
K.  Edw.  No,  by  my  troth,  I  did  not  mean  such 

love. 
L.  Grey.  Why,  then  you  mean  not  as  I  thought 

you  did. 
K.  Edw.  But  now  you  partly  may  perceive  my 

mind. 
L.  Grey.  My  mind  will  never  grant  what  I  per- 
ceive 
Your  highness  aims  at,  if  I  aim  aright. 

K.  Edw.  To  tell  thee  plain,  I  aim  to  lie  with 

thee. 
L.  Grey.  To  tell  you  plain,  I  had  rather  lie  in 

prison. 
K.  Edw.  Why,  then  thou  shalt  not  have  thy 

husband's  lands. 
L.  Grey.  Why,  then  mine  honesty  shall  be  my 

dower ; 
For  by  that  loss  I  will  not  purchase  them, 

K.  Edw.  Therein  thou  wrong'st  thy  children 

mightily. 
L.  Grey.  Herein  your  highness  wrongs  both 

them  and  me. 
But,  mighty  lord,  this  merry  inclination 
Accoixls  not  with  the  sadness  of  my  suit; 
Please  you  dismiss  me,  either  with  ay,  or  no. 
K.  Edw.  Ay  ;    if  thou  wilt  say  ay,  to  my  re- 
quest : 
No ;  if  thou  dost  say  no,  to  my  demand. 

L.  Grey.  Then,  no,  my  lord.     My  suit  is  at  an 

end. 


Glo.  The  widow  likes  him  not,  she  knits  her 

brows.  [Aside, 

Clar.  He  is  the  bluntest  wooer  in  Christendom. 

[Aside, 
K.  Edw.  [Asidei\  Her  looks  do  argue  her  re- 
plete with  modesty ; 
Her  words  do  show  her  wit  incomparable ; 
All  her  perfections  challenge  sovereignty  : 
One  way,  or  other,  she  is  for  a  king ; 
And  she  shall  be  my  love,  or  else  my  queen. — 
Say,  that  king  Edward  take  thee  for  his  queen  ? 
L.  Grey.  'T  is  better  said  than  done,  my  gra- 
cious lord : 
I  am  a  subject  fit  to  jest  withal, 
But  far  unfit  to  be  a  sovereign. 

K.  Edw.  Sweet  widow,  by  my  state  I  swear  to 
thee, 
I  speak  no  more  than  what  my  soul  intends ; 
And  that  is,  to  enjoy  thee  for  my  love. 

L.  Grey.  And  that  is  more  than  I  will  yield 
unto: 
I  know,  I  am  too  mean  to  be  your  queen  : 
And  yet  too  good  to  be  your  concubine  : 

K.  Edw.  You  cavil,  widow  ;  I  did  mean,  mj 

queen. 
L.  Grey.   'T  will  grieve  your  grace,  my  sons 

should  call  you — father. 
K.  Edw.  No  more,  than  when  thy  daughters 
call  thee  mother. 
Thou  art  a  widow,  and  thou  hast  some  children  ; 
And,  by  God's  mother,  I,  being  but  a  bachelor, 
Have  other  some :  why,  't  is  a  happy  thing 
To  be  the  father  unto  many  sons. 
Answer  no  more,  for  thou  shalt  be  my  queen. 
Glo.  The  ghostly  father  now  hath   done  his 
shrift.  [Aside. 

Clar.  When  he  was  made  a  shriver,  't  was  for 
shift.  [Aside. 

K.  Edw.  Brothers,  you  muse  what  chat  we  two 

have  had. 
Glo.  The  widow  likes  it  not,  for  she  looks  sad. 
K.  Edw.  You  'd  think  it  strange  if  I  should 

marry  her.    " 
Clar.  To  whom,  my  lord  ? 
K.  Edw.  Why,  Clarence,  to  myself. 

Glo.  That  would  be  ten  days'  wonder,  at  the 

least. 
Clar.  That 's  a  day  longer  than  a  wonder  lasts. 
Glo.  By  so  much  is  the  wonder  in  extremes. 
K.  Edw.  Well,  jest  on,  brothers :  I  can  tell  you 
both. 
Her  suit  is  granted  for  her  husband's  lauds. 

978 


^CT    III. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE    III. 


Enter  a  Nobleman. 

Nob.   My  gracious    lord,   Henry    your    foe   is 
taken, 
And  brought  your  prisoner  to  your  palace  gate. 

K.  Edw.   See,  that  he  be  conveyed  unto  the 
Tower : — 
And  go  we,  brothers,  to  the  man  that  took  him. 
To  question  of  his  apprehension. — 
Widow,  go  you  along ; — Lords,  use  her  honour- 
able. 
[Exeunt  K.  Edw.,  L.  Grey,  Clar.,  and  Lord. 

Glo.  Ay,  Edward  will  use  women  honourably. 
'Would  he  were  wasted,  marrow,  bones,  and  all. 
That  from  his  loins  no  hopeful  branch  may  spring. 
To  cross  me  from  the  golden  time  I  look  for ! 
And  yet,  between  my  soul's  desire,  and  me, 
(The  lustful  Edward's  title  buried,) 
Is  Clarence,  Henry,  and  his  son  young  Edward, 
And  all  the  unlook'd-for  issue  of  their  bodies. 
To  take  their  rooms,  ere  I  can  place  myself: 
A  cold  premeditation  for  my  purpose  ! 
Why,  then  I  do  but  dream  on  sovereignty ; 
Like  one  that  stands  upon  a  promontory, 
And  spies  a  far-off  shore  where  he  would  tread, 
Wishing  his  foot  were  equal  with  his  eye; 
And  chides  the  sea  that  sunders  him  from  thence. 
Saying — he  '11  lade  it  dry  to  have  his  way  : 
So  do  I  wish  the  crown,  being  so  far  otf ; 
And  so  I  chide  the  means  that  keep  me  from  it ; 
And  so  I  say — I  '11  cut  the  causes  off, 
Flattering  me  with  impossibilities. — 
My  eye  's  too   quick,   my   heart   o'erweens  too 

much, 
Unless  my  hand  and  strength  could  equal  them. 
Well,  say  there  is  no  kingdom  then  for  Richard ; 
What  other  pleasure  can  the  world  alford  ? 
I  '11  make  my  heaven  in  a  lady's  lap, 
And  deck  my  body  in  gay  ornaments. 
And  witch  sweet  ladies  with  my  words  and  looks. 
O  miserable  thought!  and  more  unlikely. 
Than  to  accomplish  twenty  golden  crowns! 
Why,  love  forswore  me  in  my  mother's  womb  ; 
And,  for  I  should  not  deal  in  her  soft  laws, 
She  did  corrupt  frail  nature  with  some  bribe 
To  shrink  mine  arm  up  like  a  wither'd  shrub  ; 
To  make  an  envious  mountain  on  ray  back, 
Where  sits  deformity  to  mock  my  body  ; 
To  shape  ray  legs  of  an  unequal  size ; 
To  disproportion  me  in  every  part, 
Like  to  a  chaos,  or  an  unlick'd  bear-whelp,^* 
That  carries  no  impression  like  the  dam. 
974 


And  am  I  then  a  man  to  be  belov'd? 

O,  monstrous  fault,  to  harbour  such  a  thought  1 

Then,  since  this  earth  affords  no  joy  to  me, 

But  to  command,  to  check,  to  o'erbear  such 

As  are  of  better  person  than  myself, 

I  'II  make  ray  heaven — to  dream  upon  the  crown 

And,  whiles  I  live,  to  account  this  world  but  hell, 

Until  my  misshap'd  trunk  that  bears  this  head, 

Be  round  impaled  with  a  glorious  crown. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  to  get  the  crown. 

For  many  lives  stand  between  me  and  home  : 

And  I, — like  one  lost  in  a  thorny  wood. 

That  rents  the  thorns,  and  is  rent  with  the  thorns 

Seeking  a  way,  and  straying  from  the  way  ; 

Not  knowing  how  to  find  the  open  air. 

But  toiling  desperately  to  find  it  out, — 

Torment  myself  to  catch  the  English  crown  : 

And  from  that  torment  I  will  free  myself. 

Or  hew  my  way  out  with  a  bloody  axe. 

Why,  I  can  smile,  and  murder  while  I  smile ; 

And  cry,  content,  to  that  which  grieves  my  heart ; 

And  wet  ray  cheeks  with  artificial  tears. 

And  frame  my  face  to  all  occasions. 

I  '11  drown  more  sailors  than  the  mermaid  shall ; 

I  'II  slay  more  gazers  than  the  basilisk  ; 

I  '11  play  the  orator  as  well  as  Nestor, 

Deceive  more  slily  than  Ulysses  could. 

And,  like  a  Sinon,  take  another  Troy : 

I  can  add  colours  to  the  chameleon ; 

Change  shapes,  with  Proteus,  for  advantages. 

And  set  the  raurd'rous  Machiavel  to  school. 

Can  I  do  this,  and  cannot  get  a  crown  ? 

Tut !  were  it  further  ofi",  I  '11  pluck  it  down.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — France.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Flourish.  Enter  Lewis  the  French  King,  ayid 
Lady  Bona,  attended  ;  the  King  takes  his  State. 
Then  enter  Queen  Margaret,  Prince  Edward 
her  Son,  and  the  Earl  of  Oxford. 

K.  Lew.  Fair  queen  of  England,  worthy  Mar- 
garet, [Hising. 
Sit  down  with  us ;  it  ill  befits  thy  state. 
And  birth,  that  thou  sliould'st  stand,  while  Lewis 
doth  sit. 
Q.  Mar.  No,   mighty   king   of  France  ;  now 
Margaret 
Must  strike  her  sail,  and  learn  a  while  to  serve. 
Where  kings  command.     I  was,  I  must  confess, 
Great  Albion's  queen  in  former  golden  days : 
But  now  mischance  hath  trod  my  title  down, 
And  with  dishonour  laid  me  on  the  ground ; 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE   in. 


Where  I  must  take  like  seat  unto  my  fortune, 
A.nd  to  my  humble  seat  conform  myself. 
K.  Lew.  Why,  say,  fair  queen,  whence  springs 

this  deep  despair  ? 
Q,  Mar.  From  such  a  cause  as  fills  mine  eyes 
with  tears, 
And  stops  my  tongue,  while  heart  is  drown'd  in 
cares. 
K.  Lew.  Whate'er  it  be,  be  thou  still  like  thyself, 
And  sit  thee  by  our  side :  yield  not  thy  neck 

\Seats  her  by  hiin. 
To  fortune's  yoke,  but  let  thy  dauntless  mind 
Still  ride  in  triumph  over  all  mischance. 
Be  plain,  queen  Margaret,  and  tell  thy  grief; 
It  shall  be  eas'd,  if  France  can  yield  relief. 

Q.  Mar.  Those  gracious  words  revive  my  droop- 
ing thoughts, 
And  give  my  tongue-tied  sorrows  leave  to  speak. 
Now,  therefore,  be  it  known  to  noble  Lewis, — 
That  Henry,  sole  possesiior  of  my  love. 
Is,  of  a  king,  become  a  banish'd  man. 
And  forc'd  to  live  in  Scotland  a  forlorn  ; 
While  proud  ambitious  Ed-.vard,  duke  of  York, 
Usurps  the  regal  title,  and  the  seat 
Of  Endand's  true-anointed  lawful  king. 
This  is  the  cause,  that  I,  poor  Margaret, — 
With  tbis  my  son,  prince  Edward,  Henry's  heir, — 
Am  come  to  crave  thy  just  and  lawful  aid  ; 
And,  if  thou  fail  us,  all  our  hope  is  done : 
Scotland  hath  will  to  help,  but  cannot  help  ; 
Our  people  and  our  peers  are  both  misled. 
Our  treasures  seiz'd,  our  soldiers  put  to  flight. 
And,  as  thou  see'st,  ourselves  in  heavy  plight. 
K.  Lew.  Renowned  queen,  with  patience  calm 
the  storm. 
While  we  bethink  a  means  to  break  it  off. 

Q.  Mar.  The  more  we  stay,  the  stronger  grows 

our  foe. 
71 .  Lew.  The  more  I  stay,  the  more  I  '11  suc- 
cour thee. 
Q.  Mar.  0,   but  impatience  waiteth   on   true 
sorrow : 
/\!id  see,  where  comes  the  breeder  of  my  sorrow. 

Enter  Warwick,  atterydedP 

K.  Lew.  What 's    he,   approacheth   boldly  to 
our  presence  ? 

Q.  Mar.  Our  earl  of  Warwick,  Edward's  great- 
est friend. 

l£.  Lew.    Welcome,   brave   Warwick !    What 
brings  thee  to  France  ? 
\^Descending  from  his  state.    Q.  Mar.  rises. 


Q.  Mar.  A.J,  now  begins  a  second   storm   to 
rise ; 
For  this  is  he,  that  moves  both  wind  and  tide. 

War.  From  worthy  Edward,  king  of  Albion, 
My  lord  and  sovereign,  and  thy  vowed  friend, 
I  come, — in  kindness,  and  unfeigned  love, — 
First,  to  do  greetings  to  thy  royal  person ; 
And,  then,  to  crave  a  league  of  amity  ; 
And,  lastly,  to  confirm  that  amity 
With  nuptial  knot,  if  thou  vouchsafe  to  grant 
That  virtuous  lady  Bona,  thy  fair  sister, 
To  England's  king  in  lawful  marriage. 

Q.  Mar.  If  that  go  forward,  Henry's  hope  is 
done. 

War.  And,  gracious  madam,  [To  Bona.]  in 
our  king's  behalf, 
I  am  commanded,  with  your  leave  and  favour, 
Humbly  to  kiss  your  hand,  and  with  my  tongue 
To  tell  the  passion  of  my  sovereign's  heart ; 
Where  fame,  late  entering  at  his  heedful  ears, 
Hath  plac'd  thy  beauty's  image,  and  thy  virtue. 

Q.  Mar.  King  Lewis, — and  lady  Bona, — hear 
me  speak, 
Before  yoU  answer  W^arwick.     His  demand 
Springs  not  from  Edward's  well-meant  honest  love. 
But  from  deceit,  bred  by  necessity  ; 
For  how  can  tyrants  safely  govern  home. 
Unless  abroad  they  purchase  great  alliance? 
To  prove  him  tyrant,  this  reason  may  suffice, — 
That  Henry  liveth  still :  but  were  he  dead. 
Yet  here  prince  Edward  stands,  king  Henry's  son. 
Look  therefore,  Lewis,  that  by  this  league   and 

marriage 
Thou  draw  not  on  thy  danger  and  dishonour : 
For  though  usurpers  sway  the  rule  a  while. 
Yet  heavens  are  just,  and  time  suppresseth  wrongs. 

War.  Injurious  Margaret ! 

Prince.  And  why  not  queen  ? 

War.  Because  thy  father  Henry  did  usurp ; 
And  thou  no  more  art  prince,  than  she  is  queen. 

Oxf.  Then   Warwick  disannuls  great  John  of 
Gaunt, 
Which  did  subdue  the  greatest  part  of  Spain  ; 
And,  after  John  of  Gaunt,  Henry  the  Fourth, 
Whose  wisdom  was  a  mirror  to  the  wisest ; 
And,  after  that  wise  prince,  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Who  by  his  prowess  conquered  all  France: 
From  these  our  Henry  lineally  descends. 

War.  Oxford,  how  haps  it,  in  this  smooth  ilia- 
course, 
You  told  not,  how  Henry  the  Sixth  hath  lost 
All  that  whieb  Henry  the  Fifth  had  gotten  ? 

975 


4 


ACT    111. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENTH;    111. 


Methinks,  these  peers  of  France  should  smile  at 

that. 
But  for  the  rest, — You  tell  a  pedigree 
Of  threescore  and  two  years  ;  a  silly  time 
To  make  prescription  for  a  kingdom's  worth. 
Oxf.  Why,  Warwick,  canst  thou  speak  against 
thy  liege, 
Whom  thou  obeyd'st  thirty  and  six  years, 
And  not  bewray  thy  treason  with  a  blush  ? 

War.  Can   Oxford,   that   did    ever   fence    the 
right. 
Now  buckler  falsehood  with  a  pedigree  ? 
For  shame,  leave  Henry,  and  call  Edward  king. 
Oxf,  Call   him  my  king,  by  whose  injurious 
doom 
My  elder  brother,  the  lord  Aubrey  Vere, 
Was   done   to   death  ?    and    more   than    so,  my 

father. 
Even  in  the  downfall  of  his  mellow'd  years, 
When  nature  brought  him  to  the  door  of  death  ? 
No,  Warwick,  no  ;  while  life  upholds  this  arm, 
This  arm  upholds  the  house  of  Lancaster. 
War.  And  I  the  house  of  York. 
K.  Lew.  Queen  Margaret,  prince  Edward,  and 
Oxford, 
Vouchsafe,  at  our  request,  to  stand  aside, 
While  I  use  further  conference  with  Warwick. 
Q.  Mar.  Heaven  grant,  that  Warwick's  words 
bewitch  him  not ! 

[^Retirinff  with  the  Prince  a7id  Oxf. 
IC.  Lew.  Now,  Warwick,  tell  me,  even  upon  thy 
conscience. 
Is  Edward  your  true  king  ?  for  I  were  loath, 
To  link  with  him  that  were  not  lawful  chosen. 
War.    Thereon   I  ^pawn  my  credit  and   mine 

honour. 
K.  T^eiu.  But  is  he  gracious  in  the  people's  eye  ? 
War.  The  more,  that  Henry  was  unfortunate. 
IC.  Lew.    Then  farther, — all   dissembling   set 
aside, 
Tell  me  for  truth  the  measure  of  his  love 
Unto  our  sister  Bona. 

War.  Such  it  seems, 

As  may  beseem  a  monarch  like  himself. 
Myself  have  often  heard  him  say,  and  swear, — 
That  this  his  love  w^as  an  eternal  plant; 
Whereof  the  root  was  fix'd  in  virtue's  ground. 
The  leaves  and  fruit  maintain'd  with  beauty's  sun  ; 
Exempt  from  envy,  but  not  from  disdain. 
Unless  the  lady  Bona  quit  his  pain. 

K  Lew.    Now,  sister,  let  us  Lear  your  firm 
resolve. 
W6 


Bona.    Your  grant,  or  your  denial,  shall  be 
mine : — 
Yet  I  confess,  [Tb  War.]  that  often  ere  this  day. 
When  I  have  heard  your  king's  desert  recounted, 
Mine  ear  hath  tempted  judgment  to  desire. 

K.  Lew.    Then,   Warwick,   thus, — Our   sister 
shall  be  Edward's ; 
And  now  forthwith  shall  articles  be  drawn 
Touching  the  jointure  that  your  king  must  make, 
Which  with  her  dowry  shall  be  counterpois'd  : — 
Draw  near,  queen  Margaret ;  and  be  a  witness, 
That  Bona  shall  be  wife  to  the  English  king. 

Prince.    To  Edward,  but  not  to  the  English 
king. 

Q.  Mar.  Deceitful  Warwick  !  it  was  thy  device 
By  this  alliance  to  make  void  my  suit ; 
Before  thy  coming,  Lewis  was  Henry's  friend. 

K.  Lew.  And  still  is  friend  to  him  and  Mar- 
garet : 
But  if  your  title  to  the  crown  be  weak, — 
As  may  appear  by  Edward's  good  success, — 
Then  't  is  but  reason,  that  I  be  releas'd 
From  giving  aid,  which  late  I  promised. 
Yet  shall  you  have  all  kindness  at  my  hand, 
That  your  estate  requires,  and  mine  can  yield. 

War.  Henry  now  lives  in  Scotland,  at  his  ease : 
Where  having  nothing,  nothing  he  can  lose. 
And  as  for  you  yourself,  our  quondam  queen, — 
You  have  a  fether  able  to  maintain  you  ; 
And  better  't  were,  you  troubled  him  than  France. 

Q.  Mar.  Peace,  impudent  and  shameless  War 
wick,  peace  ; 
Proud  setter-up  and  puller-down  of  kings  ! 
I  will  not  hence,  till  with  my  talk  and  tears, 
Both  full  of  truth,  I  make  king  Lewis  behold 
Thy  sly  conveyance,  and  thy  lord's  false  love ; 
For  both  of  you  are  birds  of  self-same  feather. 

\^A  Horn  sounded  within. 

K.  Lew.  Warwick,  this  is  some  post  to  us,  or 
thee. 

Enter  a  Messewiger. 

Mess.  My  lord  ambassador,  these  letters  are  for 
you; 

Sent  from  your  brother,  marquis  Montague. 

These  from  our  king  unto  your  majesty. — 

And,  madam,  these  for  you  ;  from  whom  I  know 
not. 

[To  Mar.     They  all  read  their  Letters. 
Oxf.  I  like  it  well,  that  our  fair  queen  and  mis- 
tress 

Smiles  at  her  news,  while  Warwick  frowns  at  his. 


ACT   III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SOENE  ni. 


Prince.    Nay,  mark,  how  Lewis  stamps  as  he 

were  nettled  : 
I  hope,  all  's  for  the  best, 

K.  Lew.  Warwick,  what  are  thy  news  ?  and 

yours,  fair  queen  ? 
Q.  Mar.  Mine,  such  as  fill  my  heart  with  un- 

hop'd  joys. 
War.    Mine,  full   of  sorrow  and  heart's   dis- 
content. 
K.  Lew.  What!  has  your  king  married  the  lady 

Grey  ? 
And  now,  to  sooth  your  forgery  and  his. 
Sends  me  a  paper  to  persuade  me  patience  ? 
Is  this  the  alliance  that  he  seeks  with  France  ? 
Dare  he  presume  to  scorn  us  in  this  manner  ? 

Q.  Mar.  I  told  your  majesty  as  much  before  : 
This    proveth    Edward's    love,    and    Warwick's 

honesty. 
War.  King  Lewis,  I  here  protest, — in  sight  of 

heaven. 
And  by  the  hope  I  have  of  heavenly  bliss, — 
That  I  am  clear  from  this  misdeed  of  Edward's ; 
No  more  my  king,  for  he  dishonours  me ; 
But  most  himself,  if  he  could  see  his  shame. — 
Did  I  forget,  that  by  the  house  of  York 
My  father  came  untimely  to  his  death  ? 
Did  I  let  pass  the  abuse  done  to  my  niece  f '' 
Did  I  impale  him  with  the  regal  crown? 
Did  I  put  Henry  from  his  native  right ; 
And  am  I  guerdon'd  at  the  last  with  shame  ? 
Shame  on  himself!  for  my  desjrt  is  honour. 
And,  to  repair  my  honour  lost  for  him, 
I  here  renounce  him,  and  retvrn  to  Henry  : 
My  noble  queen,  let  former  g'fudges  pass. 
And  henceforth  I  aiu  thy  t'ue  servitor; 
I  will  revenge  his  wrong  'o  lady  Bona, 
Arid  replant  Henry  in  ]\r-  former  state. 

Q.  Mar.  Warwick,  these  words  have  turn'd  ray 

hate  to  love ; 
And  I  forgive  and  quite  forget  old  fiiults. 
And  joy  that  thou  becom'st  king  Henry's  friend. 
War.    So  much  his  friend,  ay,  his  unfeigned 

friend. 
That,  if  king  Lewis  vouchsafe  to  furnish  us 
With  some  few  bands  of  chosen  soldiers, 
1  '11  undertake  to  land  them  on  our  coast, 
Alid  force  the  tyrant  from  his  seat  by  war. 
*T  is  not  his  new-raade  bride  shall  succour  him  : 
And  as  for  Clarence, — as  my  letters  tell  me. 
He  's  very  likely  now  to  fall  from  him  ; 
For  matching  more  for  wanton  lust  than  honour, 
Or  than  for  strength  and  safety  of  our  country. 


Bona.  Dear  brother,  how  shall  Bona  be  reveng'd, 
But  by  thy  help  to  this  distressed  queen  ? 

Q.  Mar.    Renowned   prince,   how  shall   poor 
Henry  live, 
Unless  thou  rescue  him  from  foul  despair  ? 

Bona.  My  quarrel,  and  this  English  queen's,  are 

one. 
War.    And  mine,  fair  lady  Bona,  joins  with 

yours. 
K.  Lew.  And  mine,  with  hers,  and  thine,  and 
Margaret's. 
Therefore,  at  last,  I  firmly  am  resolv'd, 
You  shall  have  aid. 

Q.  Mar.  Let  me  give  humble  thanks  for  all  at 

once. 
K.  Lew.  Then,  England's  messenger,  return  in 
post ; 
And  tell  false  Edward,  thy  supposed  king, — 
That  Lewis  of  France  is  sending  over  maskers, 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride : 
Thou  seest  what 's  past,  go  fear  thy  king  withal. 
Bona.  Tell  him,  In  hope  he  '11  prove  a  widower 
shortly, 
I  '11  wear  the  willow  garland  for  his  sake. 

Q.  Mar.  Tell  him.  My  mourning  weeds  are  laid 
aside. 
And  I  am  ready  to  put  armour  on. 

War.  Tell  him  from  me,  That  he  hath  done  me 
wrong ; 
And  therefore  I  '11  uncrown  him,  ere  't  be  long. 
There  's  thy  reward  ;  be  gone.  \^Exit  Mess 

K.  Lew.  But,  Warwick,  thou 

And  Oxford,  with  five  thousand  men. 
Shall  cross  the  seas,  and  bid  false  Edward  battle : 
And,  as  occasion  serves,  this  noble  queen 
And  prince  shall  follow  with  a  fresh  supply. 
Yet,  ere  thou  go,  but  answer  me  one  doubt ; — 
What  pledge  have  we  of  thy  firm  loyalty  ? 

War.  This  shall  assure  my  constant  loyalty  : — 
That  if  our  queen  and  this  young  prince  agree, 
I  '11  join  mine  eldest  daughter,"  and  my  joy. 
To  him  forthwith  in  holy  wedlock  bands. 

Q.  Mar.  Yes,  I  agree,  and  thank  you  for  your 
motion : — 
Son  Edward,  she  is  fair  and  virtuous. 
Therefore  delay  not,  give  thy  hand  to  Warwick, 
And,  with  thy  hand,  thy  faith  irrevocable, 
That  only  Warwick's  daughter  shall  be  thine. 
Prince.  Yes,  I  accept  her,  for  she  well  deserves 
it; 
And  here,  to  pledge  my  vow,  I  give  my  liand. 

\He  gives  his  hand  to  War. 
Q17 


#»"» 


ACT   IV. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE    I. 


K.  Lew.  Why  stay  we  now  ?     These  soldiers 
shall  be  levied, 
And  thou,  lord  Bourbon,  our  high  admiral, 
Shalt  waft  them  over  with  our  royal  fleet. — 
I  long,  till  Edward  fall  by  war's  mischance. 
For  mocking  marriage  with  a  dame  of  France. 

\Exexint  all  hut  War. 
War.  I  came  from  Edward  as  ambassador, 
But  I  return  his  sworn  and  mortal  foe : 


Matter   of    marriage   was   the   charge   he   gave 

me, 
But  dreadful  war  shall  answer  his  demand. 
Had  he  none  else  to  make  a  stale,  but  me  ? 
Then  none  but  I  shall  turn  his  jest  to  sorrow. 
I  was  the  chief  that  rais'd  him  to  the  crown, 
And  I  '11  be  chief  to  bring  him  down  again  : 
Not  that  I  pity  Henry's  misery, 
But  seek  revenge  on  Edward's  mocktTy.      \^Exit. 


ACT   lY. 


SCENE  I. — London.    A  Boom  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Gloster,  Clarence,  Somerset,  Montague, 
and  Others. 

Gio.  Now  tell  me,  brother  Clarence,  what  think 
you 
Of  this  new  marriage  with  the  lady  Grey  ? 
Hath  not  our  brother  made  a  worthy  choice  ? 
Clar.  Alas,  you  know,  't  is  far  from  hence  to 
France ; 
How  could  he  stay  till  Warwick  made  return  ? 
Som.  My  lords,  forbear  this  talk ;  here  comes 
the  king. 

Flourish.  Enter  King  Edward,  attended  ;  Lady 
Grey,  as  Queen  ;  Pembroke,  Stafford,  Hast- 
ings, and  Others. 

Oh.  And  his  well-chosen  bride. 
Clar.  I  mind  to  tell  him  plainly  what  I  think. 
K.  Edw.    Now,  brother  of  Clarence,  how  like 
you  our  choice. 
That  you  stand  pensive,  as  half  malcontent  ? 
Clar.  As  well  as  Lewis  of  France,  or  the  earl  of 
Warwick ; 
Which  are  so  weak  of  courage,  and  in  judgment. 
That  they'll  take  no  offence  at  our  fibuse. 

K.  Edw,  Suppose,  they  take  offence  without  a 
cause, 
They  are  but  Lewis  and  Warwick ;  I  am  Edward, 
\our  king  and  Warwick's,  and  must  have  my  will. 
Olo.  And  you  shall  have  your  will,  because  our 
king: 
Yet  hasty  marriage  seldom  proveth  well. 
978 


K.  Edw.  Yea,  brother  Richard,  are  you  offended 
too? 

Qlo.  Not  I: 
No ;  God  forbid,  that  I  should  wish  them  sever'd 
Whom  God  hath  join'd  together :  ay,  and  t  were 

pity. 

To  sunder  them  that  yoke  so  well  together. 
K.  Edw.  Setting  your  scorns,  and  your  mislike, 
aside. 
Tell  me  some  reason,  why  the  lady  Grey 
Should    not    become   my   wife,   and   Ensfland's 

queen  : — 
And  you  too,  Somerset,  and  Montague, 
Speak  freely  what  you  think. 

Clar.  Then  this  is  my  opinion, — that  king  Lewis 
Becomes  your  enemy,  for  mocking  him 
About  the  marriage  of  the  lady  Bona. 

Glo.  And  Warwick,  doing  what  you  gave  in 
charge. 
Is  now  dishonoured  by  this  new  marriage. 

K.  Edw.  What,  if  both  Lewis  and  Warwick  be 
appeas'd, 
By  such  invention  as  I  can  devise  ? 

Mont.  Yet  to  have  join'd  with  France  in  such 
alliance. 
Would  more  have  strengthen'd  this  our  coininii;- 

wealth 
'Gainst  foreign  storms,  than  any  home-bred  mar- 
riage. 
Hast.  Why,  knows  not  Montague,  that  of  itself 
England  is  safe,  if  true  within  itself  ? 

Mont.  Yes ;  but  the  safer,  when 't  is  back'd  with 
France. 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCEITK    I. 


Hast.  'T  is  better  using  France,  than  trusting 
France  : 
Let  us  be  back'd  with  God,  and  with  the  seas, 
Which  he  hath  given  for  fence  impregnable, 
And  with  their  helps  only  defend  ourselves  ; 
In  them,  and  in  ourselves,  our  safety  lies. 

Clar.  For  this  one  speech,  lord  Hastings  well 
desei'ves 
To  have  the  heir  of  the  lord  Hungerford. 

K.  Edw.  Ay,  what  of  that  ?  it  was  my  will,  and 
grant ; 
And,  for  this  once,  my  will  shall  stand  for  law. 

Qlo.  And  yet,  methinks,  your  grace  hath  not 
done  well. 
To  give  the  heir  and  daughter  of  lord  Scales 
Unto  the  brother  of  your  loving  bride ; 
She  better  would  have  fitted  me,  or  Clarence : 
But  in  your  bride  you  bury  brotherhood. 

Clar.  Or  else  you  would  not  have  bestow'd  the 
heir 
Of  the  lord  Bonville  on  your  new  wife's  son, 
And  leave  your  brothers  to  go  speed  elsewhere. 

K.  Edw.  Alas,  poor  Clarence !  is  it  for  a  wife 
That  thou  art  malcontent  ?  I  will  provide  thee. 

Clar.  In  choosing  for  yourself,  you  show'd  your 
judgment; 
Which  being  shallow,  you  shall  give  me  leave 
To  play  the  broker  in  mine  own  behalf; 
And,  to  that  end,  I  shortly  mind  to  leave  you. 

K.  Edw.  Leave  me,  or  tarry,  Edward  will  be 
king, 
And  not  be  tied  unto  his  brother's  will. 

Q.  Eliz.  My  lords,  before  it  pleas'd  his  majesty 
To  raise  my  state  to  title  of  a  queen. 
Do  me  but  right,  and  you  must  all  confess 
That  I  was  not  ignoble  of  descent,^* 
And  meaner  than  myself  have  had  like  fortune. 
But  as  this  title  honours  me  and  mine, 
So  your  dislikes,  to  whom  I  would  be  pleasing, 
Do  cloud  my  joys  with  danger  and  with  sorrow. 

K.  Edw.  My  love,  forbear  to  fawn  upon  their 
frowns  : 
What  danger,  or  what  sorrow  can  befall  thee. 
So  long  as  Edward  is  thy  constant  friend, 
And    their    true    sovereign,    whom    they    must 

obey  ? 
Nay,  whom  they  shall  obey,  and  love  thee  too. 
Unless  they  seek  for  hatred  at  my  hands  : 
Which  if  they  do,  yet  will  I  keep  thee  safe, 
And  they  shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  my  wrath. 

Qlo.  I  hear,  yet  say  not  much,  but  think  the 
more.  [^Aside. 


Enter  a  Messenger. 

K.  Edw.  Now  messenger,  what  letters,  or  whal 
news. 
From  France  ? 

Mess.  My  sovereign  liege,  no  letters ;  and  few 
words. 
But  such  as  I,  without  your  special  pardon, 
Dare  not  relate. 

K.  Edw.  Go  to,  we  pardon  thee ;  therefore,  in 
brief, 
Tell  me  their  words  as  near  as  thou  canst  guess 

them. 
What  answer  makes  king  Lewis  unto  our  letters' 
Mess.    At    my  depart,   these   were    his   very 
words ; 
"  Go  tell  false  Edward,  thy  supposed  king, — 
That  Lewis  of.France  is  sending  over  maskers. 
To  revel  it  with  him  and  his  new  bride." 

K.  Edw.  Is  Lewis  so  brave  ?  belike,  he  thinks 
"me  Henry. 
But  what  said  lady  Bona  to  my  marriage  ? 

Mess.  These  were  her  words,  utter'd  with  mild 
disdain  ; 
"  Tell  him,  in  hope  he  '11  prove  a  widower  shortly, 
I  '11  wear  the  willow  garland  for  his  sake." 

K.  Edw.  I  blame  not  her,  she  could  say  little 
less ; 
She  had  the  wrong.    But  what  said  Henry's  queen  ? 
For  I  have  heard,  that  she  was  there  in  place. 
Me.'iS.  "Tell  him,"  quoth  she,  "my  mourning 
weeds  are  done. 
And  I  am  ready  to  put  armour  on." 

K.  Edw.  Belike,  she  minds  to  play  the  Amazon. 
But  what  said  Warwick  to  these  injuries  ? 

Mess.  He,  more  incens'd  against  your  majesty 
Than  all  the  rest,  discharg'd  me  with  these  words ; 
"  Tell  him  from  me,  that  he  hath  done  me  wrong, 
And  therefore  I  '11  uncrown  him,  ere  't  be  long." 
K.  Edw.  Ha !  durst  the  ti-aitor  breathe  out  so 
proud  words  ? 
Well,  I  will  arm  me,  being  thus  forewarn'd : 
They  shall    have   wars,  and   pay  for   their   pre- 
sumption. 
But  say,  is  Warwick  friends  with  Margaret  ? 
Mess.  Ay,  gracious  sovereign ;  they  are  so  link'd 
in  friendship. 
That  young  prince  Edward   marries  Warwick's 
daughter. 
Clar.  Belike,  the  elder ;  Clarence  will  have  the 
younger.*^ 
Now,  brother  king,  farewell,  and  sit  you  fast, 

979 


ACT    IV. 


THIBD  PART  OF 


SCENE    11-111. 


For  1  will  hence  to  Warwick's  other  daughter; 
That,  though  I  want  a  kingdom,  yet  in  marriage 
I  may  not  prove  inferior  to  yourself. — 
You,  that  love  me  and  Warwick,  follow  me. 

[JSxit  Clar.,  and  Sou.  follows, 
mo.  Not  I : 
My  thoughts  aim  at  a  further  matter ;  I 
Stay  not  for  love  of  Edward,  but  the  crown. 

[Aside. 
K.  Edw.  Clarence  and  Somerset  both  gone  to 
Warwick  ! 
Yet  am  I  arm'd  against  the  worst  can  happen ; 
And  haste  is  needful  in  this  desperate  case. — 
Pembroke,  and  Stafford,  you  in  our  behalf 
Go  levy  men,  and  make  prepare  for  war ; 
They  are  already,  or  quickly  will  be  landed : 
Myself  in  person  will  straight  follow  you. 

\Exeunt  Pem.  and  Staf. 
But,  ere  I  go,  Hastings, — and  Montague, — 
Resolve  my  doubt.     You  twain,  of  all  the  rest, 
Are  near  to  Warwick,  by  blood,  and  by  alliance : 
Tell  me,  if  you  love  Warwick  more  than  me  ? 
If  it  be  so,  then  both  depart  to  him ; 
T  rather  wish  you  foes,  than  hollow  friends  ; 
But  if  you  mind  to  hold  your  true  obedience. 
Give  me  assurance  with  some  friendly  vow, 
That  I  may  never  have  you  in  suspect. 

Mont.  So  God  help  Montague,  as  he  proves  true  ! 
Hast.  And   Hastings,  as  he  favours  Edward's 

cause  ! 
K.JEdw.  Now,  brother  Richard,  will  you  stand 

by  us? 
Olo.  Ay,  in  despite  of  all  that  shall  withstand 

you. 
K.  Edw.  Why  so ;  then  am  I  sure  of  victory. 
Now  therefore  let  us  hence ;  and  lose  no  hour, 
'TSll  we  meet  Warwick  with  his  foreign  power. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.— ^  Plain  in  Warwickshire. 

Enter  Warwick  and  Oxford,  with  French  and 
other  Forces. 

War.  Trust  me,  my  lord,  all  hitherto  goes  well ; 
The  common  people  by  numbers  swarm  to  us. 

Enter  Clarence  and  Somerset. 

But,  see,  where  Somerset  and  Clarence  come ; — 
Speak  suddenly,  my  lords,  are  we  all  friends  ? 

Clar.  Fear  not  that,  my  lords. 

War.  Then,   gentle    Clarence,    welcome    unto 
Warwick ; 

980 


And  welcome,  Somerset : — I  hold  it  cowardice, 

To  rest  mistrustful  where  a  noble  heart 

Hath  pawn'd  an  open  hand  in  sign  of  love ; 

Else  might  I  think,  that  Clarence,  Edward's  brother 

Were  but  a  feigned  friend  to  our  proceedings : 

But  welcome,  Clarence ;  my  daughter  shall  be  thine, 

And  now  what  rests,  but,  in  night's  coverture, 

Tliy  brother  being  carelessly  encamp'd. 

His  soldiers  lurking  in  the  towns  about. 

And  but  attended  by  a  simple  guard. 

We  may  suiprise  and  take  him  at  our  pleasure ? 

Our  scouts  have  found  the  adventure  very  easy : 

That  as  Ulysses,  and  stout  Diomede, 

With  sleight  and  manhood  stole  to  Rhesus'  tents. 

And    brought   from   thence    the   Thracian    fatal 

steeds  f* 
So  we,  well  cover'd  with  the  night's  black  mantle, 
At  unawares  may  beat  down  Iklward's  guard, 
And  seize  himself ;  I  say  not — slaughter  him. 
For  I  intend  but  only  to  surprise  him. — 
You,  that  will  follow  me  to  this  attempt. 
Applaud  the  name  of  Henry,  with  your  leader. 

[They  all  cry,  "  Henry  !" 
Why,  then,  let  's  on  our  way  in  silent  sort : 
For  Warwick    and   his    friends,   God   and   Saint 

George !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI. — Edward's  Camp,  near  Warwick. 
Enter  certain  Watchmen,  to  guard  the  King's  Tent. 

1st  Watch.  Come  on,  my   masters,  each  man 
take  his  stand  ; 
The  king,  by  this,  is  set  him  down  to  sleep. 
2nd  Watch.  What,  will  he  not  to-bed  ? 
1st  Watch.  Why,  no  :  for  he  hath  made  a  sol- 
emn vow 
Never  to  lie  and  take  his  natural  rest. 
Till  Warwick,  or  himself,  be  quite  suppress'd, 
2nd  Watch.  To-morrow  then,  belike,  shall  be 
the  day, 
If  Warwick  be  so  near  as  men  report. 

3rd  Watch.  But  say,  I  pray,  what  nobleman  is 
that. 
That  with  the  king  here  resteth  in  his  tent  ? 
1st  Watch.  'T  is  the  lord  Hastings,  the  king's 

chiefest  friend. 
3rd  Watch.  O,  is  it  so  ?  But  why  commands  the 
king. 
That  his  chief  followers  lodge  in  towns  about  him, 
While  he  himself  keepeth  in  the  cold  field  ? 
2nd  Watch.  'T  is   the  more   honour,   because 
more  dangerous. 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    IV. 


Srd  Watx:h.  Ay ;  but  give  me  worship  and  qui- 
etness, 
I  like  it  better  than  a  dangerous  honour. 
If  Warwick  knew  in  what  estate  he  stands, 
*T  is  to  be  doubted,  he  would  waken  him. 

\st  Watch.  Unless  our  halberds  did  shuf  up 

his  passage. 
2nd  Watch.  Ay  ;  wherefore  else  guard  we  his 
royal  tent, 
But  to  defend  his  person  from  night-foes  ? 

Enter  Warwick,  Clarence,  Oxford,  Somerset, 
and  Forces. 

War.  This  is  "his  tent;  and  see,  where  stand 
his  guard. 
Courage,  my  masters :  honour  now,  or  never  ! 
But  follow  me,  and  Edward  shall  be  ours. 
\st  Watch.  Who  goes  there  ? 
2nd  Watch.  Stay,  or  thou  diest. 

[War.  and  the  rest,  cry  all — "  Warwick ! 
Warwick  !"  and  set  upon  the  Guard  ;  who 
Jly^  crying — "  Arm  !  Arm  !"  War.,  and 
the  rest,  following  them. 

The  Drum  heating,  and  Trumpets  sounding,  Re- 
enter Warwick,  and  the  rest,  bringing  the  King 
out  in  a  Gown,  sitting  in  a  Chair :  Glos.  and 
Hast.  fly. 

Som.  What  are  they  that  fly  there  ? 

War.   Richard,  and  Hastings :    let  them    go, 
here  's  the  duke. 

K.  Edw.  The  duke !  why,  Warwick,  when  we 
parted  last, 
Thou  call'dst  me  king  ? 

War.  Ay,  but  the  case  is  alter'd  : 

When  you  disgrac'd  me  in  my  embassade. 
Then  I  degraded  you  from  being  king. 
And  come  now  to  create  you  duke  of  York. 
Alas  !  how  should  you  govern  any  kingdom. 
That  know  not  how  to  use  ambassadors ; 
Nor  how  to  be  contented  with  one  wife ; 
Nor  how  to  use  your  brothers  brotherly  ; 
Nor  how  to  study  for  the  people's  welfare  ; 
Nor  how  to  shroud  yourself  from  enemies  ? 

K.  Edw.  Yea,  brother   of  Clarence,  art  thou 
here  too  ? 
N"ay,  then  I  see,  that  Edward  needs  must  down. — 
Yet,  Warwick,  in  despite  of  all  mischance, 
Of  thee  thyself,  and  all  thy  'complices, 
Edward  will  always  bear  himself  as  king: 
Though  fortune's  malice  overthrow  my  state, 
My  mind  exceeds  the  compass  of  her  wheel. 


War.  Then,  for  his  mind,  be  Edward  England's 
king :  [  Takes  off  his  Crown. 

But  Henry  now  shall  weai  the  English  crown. 
And  be  true  king  indeed  ;  thou  but  the  shadow. — 
My  lord  of  Somerset,  at  my  request. 
See  that  forthwith  duke  Edward  be  convey'd 
Unto  my  brother,  archbishop  of  York. 
When  I  have  fought  with  Pembroke  and  his  fel- 
lows, 
I  '11  follow  you,  and  tell  what  answer 
Lewis,  and  the  lady  Bona,  send  to  him  : — 
Now,  for  a  while,  farewell,  good  duke  of  York. 
K.  Edw.  What  fates  impose,  that  men  must 
needs  abide ; 
It  boots  not  to  resist  both  wind  and  tide. 

YExit  K.  Edw.,  led  out ;  Som.  with  him. 
Oxf.  What  now  remains,  my  lords,  for  us  to  do, 
But  march  to  London  with  our  soldiers  ? 

War.  Ay,  that 's  the  first  thing  that  we  have 
to  do; 
To  free  king  Henry  from  imprisonment, 
And  see  him  seated  in  the  regal  throne.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Rivers. 

Riv.  Madam,  what  makes  you  in  this  sudden 

change  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  Why,  brother  Rivers,  are  you  yet  to 
learn. 
What  late  misfortune  is  befall'n  king  Edward  ? 
Riv.  What,  loss  of  some  pitch'd  battle  against 

Warwick  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  No,  but  the  loss  of  his  own  royal  per- 
son. 
Riv.  Then  is  my  sovereign  slain  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  Ay,  almost  slain,  for  he  is  taken  pri- 
soner ; 
Either  betray'd  by  falsehood  of  his  guard, 
Or  by  his  foe  surpris'd  at  unawares  : 
And,  as  I  further  have  to  understand. 
Is  new  committed  to  the  bishop  of  York, 
Fell  Warwick's  brother,  and  by  that  our  foe. 
Riv.  These   news,  I  must  confess,  are  full  of 
grief : 
Yet,  gracious  madam,  bear  it  as  you  may ; 
Warwick  may  lose,  that  now  hath  won  the  day. 
Q.  Eliz.  Till  then,  fair  hope  must  hinder  life's 
decay. 
And  I  the  rather  wean  me  from  despair, 
For  love  of  Edward's  offspring  in  my  womb: 
This  is  it  that  makes  me  bridle  passion, 

981 


AOT  IV. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE  V-Vi. 


\.nd  bear  with  mildness  my  misfortune's  cross ; 
A-y,  ay,  for  this  I  draw  in  many  a  tear, 
And  stop  the  rising  of  blood-sucking  sighs, 
Lest  with  my  sighs  or  tears  I  blast  or  drown 
King   Edward's   fruit,    true  heir   to  the  English 
crown. 
Riv.  But,  madam,  where  is  Warwick  then  be- 
come ? 
Q.  Eliz.  I  am  informed,  that  he  comes  towards 
London, 
To  set  the  crown  once  more  on  Henry's  head  : 
Guess  thou  the  rest ;  king  Edward's  friends  must 

down. 
But,  to  prevent  the  tyrant's  violence, 
(For  trust  not  him  that  hath  once  broken  faith,) 
I  '11  hence  forthwith  unto  the  sanctuary. 
To  save  at  least  the  heir  of  Edward's  right ; 
There  shall  I  rest  secure  from  force,  and  fraud. 
Come  therefore,  let  us  fly,  while  we  may  fly  ; 
If  Warwick  take  us,  we  are  sure  to  die.   \Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  Park  near  Middleham  Castle,  in 
Yorkshire. 

Evter  Gloster,  Hastings,  Sir  William  Stan- 
ley, and  Others. 

(jrlo.  Now,  my  lord  Hastings,  and  sir  William 

Stanley, 
Leave  off"  to  wonder  why  I  drew  you  hither. 
Into  this  chiefest  thicket  of  the  park. 
Thus  stands  the  case:  You  know,  our  king,  my 

brother, 
Is  prisoner  to  the  bishop  here,  at  whose  hands 
He  hath  good  usage  and  great  liberty ; 
And  often,  but  attended  with  weak  guard. 
Comes  hunting  this  way  to  disport  himself. 
I  have  advertis'd  him  by  secret  means. 
Til  at  if  about  this  hour,  he  make  this  way 
Under  the  colour  of  his  usual  game. 
He  shall   here  find  his  friends,  with  horse  and 

men, 
To  set  him  free  from  his  captivity. 

Enter  King  Edward,  and  a  Huntsman. 

Hunt.  This  way,  my  lord ;  for  this  way  lies  the 

game. 
A".  Edw.  Nay,  this  way,  man ;  see,  where  the 
huntsjnen  stand. — 
Now,  brother  of  G.oster,  lord,  Hastings,  and  the 

rest, 
Stand  you  thus  close,  to  steal  the  bishop's  deer  ?    , 

082 


Glo.  Brother,  the  time  and  case  requireth  haste ; 
Your  horse  stands  ready  at  the  park  corner. 
K.  Edw.  But  whither  shall  we  then  ? 
Hast.  To  Lynn,  my  lord  ;  and  ship  from  thence 

to  Flanders. 
Gib.  Well  guess'd,  believe  me ;  for  that  was 

my  meaning. 
K.  Edw.  Stanley,  I  will  requite  thy  forwardness. 
Glo.  But  wherefore  stay  we  ?  't  is  no  time  to 

talk. 
IT.  Edw.  Huntsman,  what  say'st  thou  ?    wilt 

thou  go  along  ? 
Hunt.  Better  do  so,  than  tarry  and  be  hang'd. 
Glo.  Come  then,  away  ;  let 's  have  no  more  ado. 
K.  Edw.  Bishop,  farewell :    shield  thee  from 

Warwick's  frown  ; 
And  pray  that  I  may  repossess  the  crown. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VL— ^  Room  in  the  Totoer. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Clarence,  Warwick,  So- 
merset, young  Richmond,  Oxford,  Montague, 
Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Master  lieutenant,  now  that  God  and 
friends 
Have  shaken  Edward  from  the  regal  seat ; 
And  turn'd  ray  captive  state  to  liberty. 
My  fear  to  hope,  my  sorrows  unto  joys  ; 
At  our  enlargement  what  are  thy  due  fees  ? 

Lieu.  Subjects  may  challenge  nothing  of  theii 
sovereigns ; 
But,  if  an  humble  prayer  may  prevail, 
I  then  crave  pardon  of  your  majesty. 

K.  Hen.  For  what,  lieutenant  ?  for  well  using 
me  ? 
Nay,  be  thou  sure,  I  '11  well  requite  thy  kindness, 
For  that  it  made  my  imprisonment  a  pleasure ; 
Ay,  such  a  pleasure  as  incaged  birds 
Conceive,  when,  after  many  moody  thoughts, 
At  last,  by  notes  of  household  harmony. 
They  quite  forget  their  loss  of  liberty. — 
But,  Warwick,  after  God,  thou  set'st  me  free. 
And  chiefly  therefore  I  thank  God,  and  thee ; 
He  was  the  author,  thou  the  instrument. 
Therefore,  that  I  may  conquer  fortune's  spite, 
By  living  low,  where  fortune  cannot  hurt  me ; 
And  that  the  people  of  this  blessed  land 
May  not  be  punish'd  with  my  thwarting  stars ; 
Warwick,  although  my  head  still  wear  the  crown, 
I  here  resign  my  government  to  thee 
For  thou  art  fortunate  in  all  thy  deeds. 


Acr  IV                                           KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH.                                   scene  vi. 

U''ar.  Your   grace  hath   still   been  fam'd  for 

Of  whom  you  seem  to  have  so  tender  care  ? 

virtuous ; 

Som.  My  liege,  it  is  young  Henry,  earl  of  Rich* 

And  now  may  seem  as  wise  as  virtuous, 

mond. 

By  spying,  and  avoiding,  fortune's  malice. 

K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  England's  hope :  If  sfj* 

For  few  men  rightly  temper  with  the  stars ;" 

cret  powers 

Yet  in  this  one  thing  let  me  blame  your  grace. 

[Lays  his  Hand  on  his  Head. 

For  choosing  me,  when  Clarence  is  in  place. 

Suggest  but  truth  to  my  divining  thoughts, 

Clar.  No,  Warwick,  thou  art  worthy  of  the 

This  pretty  lad  will  prove  our  country's  bliss. 

sway. 

His  looks  are  full  of  peaceful  majesty  ; 

To  whom  the  heavens,  in  thy  nativity. 

His  head  by  nature  fram'd  to  wear  a  crown, 

Adjudg'd  an  olive  branch,  and  laurel  crown, 

His  hand  to  wield  a  sceptre  ;  and  himself 

As  likely  to  be  blest  in  peace,  and  war ; 

Likely,  in  time,  to  bless  a  regal  throne. 

And  therefore  I  yield  thee  my  free  consent. 

Make  much  of  him,  my  lords ;  for  this  is  he, 

War.  And  I  choose  Clarence  only  for  protector. 

Must  help  you  more  than  you  are  hurt  by  me. 

K.  Hen.  Warwick,  and  Clarence,  give  me  both 

your  hands ; 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Now  join   your  hands,    and,  with  your   hands, 

War.  What  news,  my  friend  ? 

your  hearts. 

Mess.    That   Edward   is   escaped    from    youi 

That  no  dissension  hinder  government : 

brother. 

I  make  you  both  protectors  of  this  land ; 

And  fled,  as  he  hears  since,  to  Burgundy. 

While  I  myself  will  lead  a  private  life, 

War.   Unsavoury  news :    But  how  made   he 

And  in  devotion  spend  my  latter  days, 

escape  ? 

To  sin's  rebuke,  and  my  Creator's  praise. 

Mess.  He  was  convey'd  by  Richard  duke  of 

War.  What  answers  Clarence  to  his  sovereign's 

Gloster, 

•  will  ? 

And  the  lord  Hastings,  who  attended  him 

Clar.  That  he  consents,  if  Warwick  yield  con- 

In secret  ambush  on  the  forest  side. 

sent; 

And  from  the  bishop's  huntsmen  rescued  him ; 

For  on  thy  fortune  I  repose  myself. 

F'or  hunting  was  his  daily  exercise. 

War.  Why  then,  though  loath,  yet  must  I  be 

War.    My   brother   was   too    careless   of    his 

content : 

charge. — 

We  '11  yoke  together,  like  a  double  shadow 

But  let  us  hence,  ray  sovereign,  to  provide 

To  Henry's  body,  and  supply  his  place ; 

A  salve  for  any  sore  that  may  betide. 

I  mean,  in  bearing  weight  of  government, 

[Exeunt  K.  Hen.,  War.,  Clar.,  Lieut.,  and 

While  he  enjoys  the  honour,  and  his  ease. 

Attendants. 

And,  Clarence,  now  then  it  is  more  than  needful, 

Som.  My  lord,  I  like  not  of  this  flight  of  Ed- 

Forthwith that  Edward  be  pronounc'd  a  traitor, 

ward's  ; 

And  all  his  lands  and  goods  be  confiscate. 

For,  doubtless.  Burgundy  will  yield  him  help ; 

Clar.  What  else?  and  that  succession  bede- 

And  we  shall  have  more  wars,  before  't  be  long. 

termin'd. 

As  Henry's  late  presaging  prophecy 

War.  Ay,  therein  Clarence  shall  not  want  his 

Did  glad  my  heart,  with  hope  of  this  young  Rich- 

part. 

mond  ; 

K.  Ren.  But,  with   the  first  of  all  your  chief 

So  doth  my  heart  misgive  me,  in  these  conflicts. 

aflfairs, 

What  may  befall  him,  to  his  harm,  and  ours  : 

Let  me  entreat,  (for  I  command  no  more,) 

Therefore,  lord  Oxford,  to  prevent  the  worst, 

That  Margaret  your  queen,  and  my  son  Edward, 

Forthwith  we  '11  send  him  hence  to  Brittany, 

Be  sent  for,  to  return  from  France  with  speed  : 

Till  storms  be  past  of  civil  enmity. 

For.  till  I  see  them  here,  by  doubtful  fear 

Oxf.  Ay  ;  for,  if  Edward  repossess  the  crown. 

My  joy  of  liberty  is  half  eclips'd. 

'T  is   like,  that   Richmond  with  the   rest  shall 

Clar.  It  shall  be  done,  my  sovereign,  with  all 

down. 

speed. 

Som.  It  shall  be  so;  he  shall  to  Brittany. 

K.Hen.  My  lord  of  Somerset,  what  youth  is 

Come,  therefore,  let 's  about  it  speedily. 

that, 

[Exeunt. 
983 

ACT    V. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE    VXl. 


SCENE  Yll.— Before  York. 

Enter  King  Edward,  Glostek,  Hastings,  and 
Forces. 

K.  Edw.  Now,  brother  Richard,  lord  Hastings, 
and  the  rest ; 
Yet  thus  far  fortune  maketh  us  amends, 
A.nd  says — that  once  more  I  shall  interchange 
My  waned  state  for  Henry's  regal  crown. 
Well  have  we  pass'd,  and  now  repass'd  the  seas, 
And  brought  desir'd  help  from  Bui-gundy  : 
What  then  remains,  we  being  thus  arriv'd 
From   Ravenspurg    haven    before   the    gates    of 

York, 
But  that  we  enter,  as  into  our  dukedom  ? 

Glo.  The  gates  made  fast ! — Brother,  I  like  not 
this ; 
For  many  men,  that  stumble  at  the  threshold. 
Are  well  foretold — that  danger  lurks  within. 
K.  Edw.  Tush,   man  !    abodements    must  not 
now  affright  us : 
By  fair  or  foul  means  we  must  enter  in, 
For  hither  will  our  friends  repair  to  us. 

Hast.  My  liege,  I  '11  knock  once  more,  to  sum- 
mon them. 

Enter,  on  the  Walls,  the  Mayor  of  York,  and  his 
Brethren. 

May.  M}'-  lords,  we  were  forewarned  of  your 
coming. 
And  shut  the  gates  for  safety  of  ourselves ; 
For  now  we  owe  allegiance  unto  Henry, 

K.  Edw.  But,  master  mayor,  if  Henry  be  your 
king. 
Yet  Edward,  at  the  least,  is  duke  of  York. 

May.  True,  my  good  lord ;  I  know  you  for  no 

less. 
K.  Edw.  Why,  and  I  challenge  nothing  but 
my  dukedom ; 
As  being  well  content  with  that  alone. 

Glo.  But,  when  the  fox  hath  once  got  in  his 
nose, 
He  '11  soon  find  means  to  make  the  body  follow. 

[Aside. 
Hast.  Why,  master  mayor,  why  stand  you  in 
a  doubt  ? 
Open  the  gates,  we  are  king  Henry's  friends. 
May.  Ay,  say  you  so?  the  gates  shall  then  be 
open'd.  [Exeunt  from  above. 

Olo.    A   wise    stout   captain,    and   persuaded 
soon  1 
084 


Hast.  The  good  old  man  would  fain  that  all 
were  well, 
So  't  were  not  'long  of  him :  but,  being  enter'd, 
I  doubt  not,  I,  but  we  shall  soon  persuade 
Both  him,  and  all  his  brothers,  unto  reason. 

Re-enter  the  Mayor  and  Two  Aldermen,  helow. 

K.  Edw.  So,  master  mayor  :  these  gates  must 
not  be  shut, 
But  in  the  night,  or  in  the  time  of  war. 
What !  fear  not,  man,  but  yield  me  up  the  keys  ; 

[Takes  his  Keys 
For  Edward  will  defend  the  town,  and  thee, 
And  all  those  friends  that  deign  to  follow  me. 

Drum.      Enter   Montgomery,  and  Forces, 
marching. 

Glo.  Brother,  this  is  sir  John  Montgomery, 
Our  trusty  friend,  unless  I  be  deceiv'd. 

K.  Edw.  Welcome,  sir  John  !     But  why  come 

you  in  arms  ? 
Mont.    To  help  king  Edward  in  his  time  of 
storm. 
As  every  loyal  subject  ought  to  do. 

K.  Edw.  Thanks,  good  Montgomery :  But  we 
now  forget 
Our  title  to  the  crown  ;  and  only  claim 
Our  dukedom,  till  God  please  to  send  the  rest. 
Mont.    Then   fare  you  well,  for   I  will  hence 
again  ; 
I  came  to  serve  a  king,  and  not  a  duke, — 
Drummer,  strike  up,  and  let  us  march  away. 

[A  March  begun. 
K.  Edw.    Nay,  stay,  sir  John,  a  while ;  and 
we  '11  debate, 
By  what  safe  means  the  crown  may  be  recover'd. 
Mont.  What  talk  you  of  debating  ?  in  few  words 
If  you  '11  not  here  proclaim  yourself  our  king, 
I  '11  leave  you  to  your  fortune ;  and  be  gone. 
To  keep  them  back  that  come  to  succour  you : 
Why  should  we  fight,  if  you  pretend  no  title  ? 
Qlo.    Why,  brother,  wherefore  stand  you  on 

nice  points  ? 
K.  Edw.    When  we  grow  stronger,  then  we  '11 
make  our  claim  : 
Till  then,  't  is  wisdom  to  conceal  our  meaning. 
Ha^t.    Away  with  scrupulous  wit !  now  arms 

must  rule. 
Olo.  And  fearless  minds  climb  soonest  unia 
crowns. 
Brother,  we  will  proclaim  you  out  of  hand ; 
The  bruit  thereof  will  bring  you  many  friends. 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE   VIII. 


K.  Edio.    Then  be  it  as  you  will ;  for  't  is  my 
right, 
And  Henry  but  usurps  the  diadem, 

Mont.    Ay,  now  my  sovereign  speaketh  like 
himself ; 
And  now  will  I  be  Edward's  champion. 

Hast.  Sound,  trumpet ;  Edward  shall  be  here 
proclaim'd : — 
Come,  fellow-soldier,  make  thou  proclamation, 

[Gives  him  a  Paper.     Flourish. 

Sold.  \Reads^  Edward  the  Fourth,  by  the  grace  of 
f^od,  king  of  England  and  France,  and  lord  of  Ire- 
land, <fec. 

Mont.  And  whosoe'er  gainsays  king  Edward's 
right, 
By  this  I  challenge  him  to  single  fight. 

[Throws  down  a  Gauntlet. 
All.  Long  live  Edward  the  Fourth ! 
K.  Edw.    Thanks,  brave   Montgomery  ; — and 
thanks  unto  you  all. 
If  fortune  serve  me,  I  '11  requite  this  kindness. 
Now,  for  this  night,  let 's  harbour  here  in  York : 
And,  when  the  morning  sun  shall  raise  his  car 
Above  the  border  of  this  horizon, 
We  '11  forward  towards  Warwick,  and  his  mates ; 
For,  well  I  wot,  that  Henry  is  no  soldier. — 
Ah,  froward  Clarence  ! — how  evil  it  beseems  thee. 
To  flatter  Henry,  and  forsake  thy  brother ! 
Yet,  as  we  may,  we  '11  meet  both  thee  and  War- 
wick.— 
Come  on,  brave  soldiers  ;  doubt  not  of  the  day  ; 
And,  that  once  gotten,  doubt  not  of  large  pay. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII. — London.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Henry,  Warwick,  Clarence,  Mon- 
tague, Exeter,  and  Oxford. 

War.    What    counsel,    lords  ?    Edward   from 
Belgia, 
With  hasty  Germans,  and  blunt  Hollanders, 
Hath  pass'd  in  safety  through  the  narrow  seas. 
And  with  his  troops  doth  march  amain  to  London  ; 
And  many  giddy  people  flock  to  him. 

Oxf.  Let 's  levy  men,  and  beat  him  back  again. 

Clar.  A  little  fire  is  quickly  trodden  out ; 
Which,  being  suffer'd,  rivers  cannot  quench. 

War.    In  Warwickshire  I  have  true-hearted 
friends. 
Not  mutinous  in  peace,  yet  bold  in  war ; 
Those  will  I  muster  up : — and  thou,  son  Clarence, 


Shalt  stir,  in  Sufiblk,  Norfolk,  and  in  Kent, 
The  knights  and  gentlemen  to  come  with  thee : — 
Thou,  brother  Montague,  in  Buckingham, 
Northampton,  and  in  Leicestershire,  shalt  find 
Men    well    inclin'd    to    hear    what    thou    com- 

mand'st : — 
And  thou,  brave  Oxford,  wondrous  well  belov'd, 
In  Oxfordshire  shalt  muster  up  thy  friends. — 
My  sovereign,  with  the  loving  citizens, — 
Like  to  his  island,  girt  in  with  the  ocean. 
Or  modest  Dian,  circled  with  her  nymphs, — 
Shall  rest  in  London,  till  we  come  to  him. — 
Fair  lords,  take  leave,  and  stand  not  to  reply. — 
Farewell,  my  sovereign. 

K.  Hen.  Farewell,  my  Hector,  and  my  Troy's 

true  hope. 
Clar.    In  sign  of  truth,  I  kiss  your  highness' 

hand. 
K.  Hen.  Well-minded  Clarence,  be  thou  for- 
tunate ! 
Mont.   Comfort,  my  lord  ; — and  so  I  take  my 

leave. 
Oxf.  And  thus  [Kissing  Henry's  hand^  I  seal 

my  truth,  and  bid  adieu. 
K.  Hen.    Sweet  Oxford,  and  my  loving  Mon- 
tague, 
And  all  at  once,  once  more  a  happy  farewell. 
War.    Farewell,   sweet  lords ;    let 's  meet   at 
Coventry. 

[Exeunt  War.,  Clar.,  Oxf.,  and  Mont. 
K.  Hen.  Here  at  the  palace  will  I  rest  a  while. 
Cousin  of  Exeter,  what  thinks  your  lordship  ? 
Methinks,  the  power,  that  Edward  hath  in  field, 
Should  not  be  able  to  encounter  mine. 

Exe.  The  doubt  is,  that  he  will  seduce  the  rest. 
K.  Hen.  That 's  not  my  fear,  my  meed  hath  got 
me  fame.'" 
I  have  not  stopp'd  mine  ears  to  their  demands. 
Nor  posted  ofi"  their  suits  with  slow  delays  ; 
My  pity  hath  been  balm  to  heal  their  wounds, 
My  mildness  hath  allay'd  their  swelling  griefs, 
My  mercy  dry'd  their  bitter-flowing  tears : 
I  have  not  been  desirous  of  their  wealth. 
Nor  much  oppress'd  them  with  great  subsidies, 
Nor  forward  of  revenge,  though  they  much  err'd  ; 
Then  why  should  they  love  Edward  more  than  me  ? 
No,  Exeter,  these  graces  challenge  grace : 
And,  when  the  lion  fawns  upon  the  lamb, 
The  lamb  will  never  cease  to  follow  him. 
[Shout  within.    "  A  Lancaster !  A  Lancaster  !"*' 
Exe.  Hark,  hark,  my  lord  !  what  shouts  ar« 
these  1 

986 


ACT   V. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


Enter  Kino  Edward,  Gloster,  and  Soldiers. 

K.  Edw.  Seize  on  the  shame-fac'd  Henry,  bear 

him  hence, 
A.nd  once  again  proclaim  us  king  of  England. — 
You  are  the  fount,  that  makes  small  brooks  to 

flow; 
Now  stops  thy  spring ;  my  sea  shall  suck  them 

dry, 
A.nd  swell  so  much  the  higher  by  their  ebb. — 


Hence  with  him  to  the  Tower ;  let  him  not  speak, 
\Exeunt  some  with  K.  Hen. 
And,  lords,  towards  Coventry  bend  we  our  course, 
Where  peremptory  Warwick  now  remains  '}* 
The  sun  shines  hot,  and,  if  we  use  delay. 
Cold  biting  winter  mars  our  hop'd  for  hay. 

Glo.  Away  betimes,  before  his  forces  join. 
And  take  the  great-grown  traitor  unawares  : 
Brave  warriors,  march  amain  towards  Coventry. 

^Exeunt, 


ACT   Y. 


SCENE  I.— Coventry. 

Enter,  upon  the  Walls,  Warwick,  the  Mayor  of 
Coventry,  Two  Messengers,  and  Others. 

War.  Where  is  the  post,  that  came  from  valiant 
Oxford  ? 
How  far  hence  is  thy  lord,  mine  honest  fellow  ? 
\st  Mess.  By  this  at  Dunsmore,  marching  hither- 
ward. 
War.  How  far  oflf  is  our  brother  Montague  ? — 
Where  is  the  post  that  came  from  Montague  ? 
2nd  Mess.  By  this  at  Daintry,  with  a  puissant 
troop. 

Enter  Sir  John  Somerville. 

War.  Say,  Somerville,  what  says  my  loving  son  ? 
And,  by  the  guess,  how  nigh  is  Clarence  now  ? 
Som.  At  Southam  I  did  leave  him  with   his 
forces, 
And  do  expect  him  here  some  two  hours  hence. 

[Drum  heard. 
War.  Then  Clarence  is  at  hand,  I  hear  his  drum. 
Som.  It  is  not  his,  my  lord ;  here  Southam  lies  ; 
The  drum  your  honour  hears,  marcheth  from  War- 
wick. 
War.  Who  should  that  be  ?  belike,  unlook'd- 

for  friends. 
Som.  They  are  at  hand,  and  you  shall  quickly 
know. 

Drums.    Enter  King  Edward,  Gloster,  and 
Forces,  marching. 

K.  Edw.  Go,  trumpet,  to  the  walls,  and  sound 
a  parle. 


Glo.  See,  how  the  surly  Warwick   mans   tlic 

wall. 
War.    0,  unbid    spite !    is  sportful    Edward 
come? 
Where  slept  our  scouts,  or  how  are  they  seduc'd, 
That  we  could  hear  no  news  of  his  repair  ? 

K.  Edw.  Now,  Warwick,  wilt  thou   ope   the 
city  gates. 
Speak  gentle  words,  and  humbly  bend  thy  knee  ? — 
Call  Edward — king,  and  at  his  hands  beg  mercy. 
And  he  shall  pardon  thee  these  outrages. 

War.  Nay,  rather,  wilt  thou  draw  thy  forces 
hence. 
Confess  who  set  thee  up,  and  pluck'd  thee  down  ? — 
Call  Warwick — patron,  and  be  penitent. 
And  thou  shalt  still  remain  the  duke  of  York. 
Glo.  I  thought,  at  least,  he  would  have  said — 
the  king ; 
Or  did  he  make  the  jest  against  his  will  ? 
War.  Is  not  a  dukedom,  sir,  a  goodly  gift  ? 
Glo.   Ay,   by   my  faith,   for   a  poor   earl   to 
give; 
I  '11  do  thee  service  for  so  good  a  gift. 

War.  'T  was  I,  that  gave  the  kingdom  to  thy 

brother. 
K.  Edw.  Why,  then  't  is  mine,  if  but  by  War- 
wick's gift. 
War.  Thou  art  no  Atlas  for  so  great  a  weight : 
And,  weakling,  Warwick  takes  his  gift  again  : 
And  Henry  is  my  king,  Warwick  his  subject. 
K.  Edw.  But   Warwick's   king   is   Edward's 
prisoner : 
And,  gallant  Warwick,  do  but  answer  this, — 
What  is  the  body,  when  the  head  is  oft"? 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


8CENK   I. 


Qlo.  Alas,  that  Warwick  had  no  more  forecast, 
But,  whiles  he  thought  to  steal  tlie  single  ten, 
The  king  was  slily  finger'd  from  the  deck !" 
You  left  poor  Henry  at  the  bishop's  palace, 
And,  ten  to  one,  you  '11  meet  him  in  the  Tower. 
K.  Edio.  'T  is  even  so  ;  yet  you  are  Warwick 

still. 
Olo.  Come,   Warwick,  take   the   time,    kneel 
down,  kneel  down  : 
Nay,  -when  ?  strike  now,  or  else  the  iron  cools. 
War.  I  had  rather  chop  this   hand  off  at  a 
blow, 
And  with  the  other  fling  it  at  thy  face. 
Than  bear  so  low  a  sail,  to  strike  to  thee. 

K.  Edw.  Sail  how  thou  canst,  have  wind  and 
tide  thy  friend ; 
This  hand,  fast  wound  about  thy  coal-black  hair, 
Shall,  whiles  the  head  is  warm,  and  new  cut  off. 
Write  in  the  dust  this  sentence  with  thy  blood, — 
"  Wind-changing  Warwick  now  can  change  no 
more." 

Enter  Oxford,  iviih  Drum  and  Colours. 

War.  O  cheerful  colours !    see,  where   Oxford 

comes ! 
Oxf.  Oxford,  Oxford,  for  Lancaster  ! 

[OxF.  and  his  Forces  enter  the  City. 
Glo.  The  gates  are  open,  let  us  enter  too. 
K.  Edw.  So    other    foes    may  set  upon    our 
backs. 
Stand  we  in  good  array;  for  they,  no  doubt, 
Will  issue  out  again,  and  bid  us  battle; 
If  not,  the  city,  being  but  of  small  defence. 
We  '11  quickly  rouse  the  traitors  in  the  same. 
War.  O,  welcome,  Oxford  1  for  we  want  thy 
help. 

Enter  Montague,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 

Mont.  Montague,  Montague,  for  Lancaster  ! 

[He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  City. 
Glo.  Thou  and  thy  brother  both  shall  buy  this 
treason 
Even  with  the  dearest  blood  your  bodies  bear. 
K.  Edw.  The  harder  match'd,  the  greater  vic- 
tory ; 
My  mind  prc-aageth  happy  gain,  and  conquest. 

Enter  Someuset,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 

Som.  Somerset,  Somerset,  for  Lancaster ! 

I  He  and  his  Forces  enter  the  City. 
Glo.  Two  of  thy  name,  both  dukes  of  Somer- 
set, 


Have  sold  their  lives  uflto  the  house  of  York ; 
And  thou  shalt  be  the  third,  if  this  sword  hold. 

Enter  Clarence,  with  Drum  and  Colours. 

War.  And  lo,  where  George  of  Clarence  sweeps 
along. 
Of  force  enough  to  bid  his  brother  battle ; 
With  whom  an  upright  zeal  to  right  prevails. 
More  than  the  nature  of  a  brother's  love : — 
Come,  Clarence,   come ;    thou  wilt,   if  Warwick 
calls. 
Clar.  Father  of  Warwick,  know  you  what  thia 
means? 

\TaJcing  the  red  Rose  out  of  his  Cap. 
Look  here,  I  throw  my  infamy  at  thee : 
I  will  not  ruinate  my  father's  house, 
Who  gave  his  blood  to  lime  the  stones  together, 
And  set  up  Lancaster.     Why,  trow'st  thou,  War- 
wick, 
That  Clarence  is  so  harsh,  so  blunt,  unnatural, 
To  bend  the  fatal  instruments  of  war 
Against  his  brother,  and  his  lawful  king  ? 
Perhaps,  thou  wilt  object  my  holy  oath  : 
To  keep  that  oath,  were  more  impiety 
Than  Jephtha's,  when  he  sacrific'd  his  daughter. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  my  trespass  made. 
That,  to  deserve  well  at  my  brother's  hands, 
I  here  proclaim  myself  thy  mortal  foe  ; 
With  resolution,  wheresoe'er  I  meet  thee, 
(As  I  will  meet  thee,  if  thou  stir  abroad,) 
To  plague  thee  for  thy  foul  misleading  me. 
And  so,  proud-hearted  Warwick,  I  defy  thee, 
And  to  my  brother  turn  my  blushing  cheeks.— 
Pardon  me,  Edward,  I  will  make  amends ; 
And,  Richard,  do  not  frown  upon  my  faults, 
For  I  will  henceforth  be  no  more  unconstant. 
K.  Edw.  Now  welcome  more,  and  ten  times 
more  belov'd. 
Than  if  thou  never  hadst  deserv'd  our  hate. 
Glo.  Welcome,  good  Clarence  ;  this  is  brother 

like. 
War.  O  passing  traitor,  perjur'd,  and  unjust ! 
K.  Edw.  What,  Warwick,  wilt  thou  leave  the 
town,  and  fight  ? 
Or  shall  we  beat  the  stones  about  thine  ears  ? 

War.  Alas,  I  am  not  coop'd  here  for  defence : 
I  will  away  towards  Barnet  presently. 
And  bid  thee  battle,  Edward,  if  thou  dar'st. 
K.  Edw.  Yes,  Warwick,   Edward  dares,  and 
leads  the  way  : — 
Lords,  to  the  field  ;  Saint  George,  and  victory  1 

[March.     Exeunt. 
887 


ACT    V. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE  ii-m. 


SCENE  II. — A  Field  of  Battle  near  Barnet. 

Alarums,  and  Excursions.    Enter  King  Edward, 
bringing  in  Warwick,  wounded. 

K.  Edio.  So,  lie  thou  there  :  die  thou,  and  die 

our  fear ; 
For  Warwick  was  a  bug,  that  fear'd  us  all. — 
Now,  Montague,  sit  fast ;  I  seek  for  thee. 
That  Warwick's  bones  may  keep  thine  company. 

[Exit. 
War.  Ah,  who  is  nigh  ?  come  to  me,  friend,  or 

foe, 
And  tell  me,  who  is  victor,  York,  or  Warwick  ? 
Why  ask  I  that  ?  my  mangled  body  shows. 
My  blood,  my  want  of  strength,  my  sick  heart 

shows, 
That  I  must  yield  my  body  to  the  earth. 
And,  by  my  fall,  the  conquest  to  my  foe. 
Thus  yields  the  cedar  to  the  axe's  edge, 
Whose  arms  gave  shelter  to  the  princely  eagle. 
Under  whose  shade  the  ramping  lion  slept ; 
Whose   top-branch   overpeer'd  Jove's   spreading 

tree. 
And  kept  low  shrubs  from  winter's  powerful  wind. 
These  eyes,  that  now  are  dimra'd  with  death's 

black  veil, 
Have  been  as  piercing  as  the  mid-day  sun, 
To  search  the  secret  treasons  of  the  world  : 
The  wrinkles  in  my  brows,  now  fiU'd  with  blood, 
Were  hken'd  oft  to  kingly  sepulchres ; 
For  who  liv'd  king,  but  I  could  dig  his  grave  ? 
And  who  durst  smile,  when  Warwick  bent  his 

brow  ? 
Lo,  now  my  glory  smear'd  in  dust  and  blood  ! 
My  parks,  my  walks,  my  manors  that  I  had. 
Even  now  forsake  me  ;  and,  of  all  my  lands. 
Is  nothing  left  me,  but  my  body's  length ! 
Why,  what  is  pomp,  rule,  reign,  but  earth  and 

dust  ? 
And,  live  we  how  we  can,  yet  die  we  must.    ' 

Enter  Oxford  and  Somerset. 

Som.  Ah,  Warwick,  Warwick!   wert  thou  as 
we  are. 

We  might  recover  all  our  loss  again  ! 

The  queen  from  France  hath  brought  a  puissant 
power; 

Even  now  we  heard  the  news :  Ah,  couldst  thou 
fly! 
Wxr.  Why,  then  I  would  not  fly. — Ah,  Mon- 
tague, 
088 


If  thou  be  there,  sweet  brother,  take  my  hand, 
And  with  thy  lips  keep  in  my  soul  a  while ! 
Thou  lov'st  me  not ;  for,  brother,  if  thou  didst. 
Thy  tears  would  wash  this  cold  congealed  blood 
That  glues  my  lips,  and  will  not  let  me  speak. 
Come  quickly,  Montague,  or  I  am  dead. 

Som.  Ah,  Warwick,  Montague  hath  breath'd 

his  last ; 
And  to  the  latest  gasp,  cried  out  for  Warwick, 
And  said — Commend  me  to  my  valiant  brother. 
And   more  he  would  have  said  ;   and  more  he 

spoke. 
Which  sounded  like  a  cannon  in  a  vault. 
That  might  not  be  distinguish'd ;  but,  at  last, 
I  well  might  hear  deUver'd,  with  a  groan, — 
0,  farewell,  Warwick ! 

War.  Sweet  rest  to  his  soul ! — 

Fly,  lords,  and  save  yourselves ;  for  Warwick  bids 

You  all  farewell,  to  meet  again  in  heaven.    [Dies. 

Oxf.  Away,  away,  to  meet  the  queen's  great 

power ! 

\Exeunt,  hearing  off  War.'s  Body. 

SCENE  \\\.— Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Flourish.      Enter  King  Edward,  in  triumph; 
with  Clarence,  Gloster,  and  the  rest. 

K.  Edw.  Thus  far  our  fortune  keeps  an  upward 
course. 
And  we  are  grac'd  with  wreaths  of  victory. 
But,  in  the  midst  of  this  bright-shining  day, 
I  spy  a  black,  suspicious,  threat'ning  cloud. 
That  will  encounter  with  our  glorious  sun. 
Ere  he  attain  his  easeful  western  bed  : 
I  mean,  my  lords, — those  powers,  that  the  queen 
Hath  rais'd  in  Gallia,  have  arriv'd  our  coast. 
And,  as  we  hear,  march  on  to  fight  with  us. 

Clar.  A  little  gale  will  soon  disperse  that  cloud, 
And  blow  it  to  the  source  from  whence  it  came : 
Thy  very  beams  will  dry  those  vapours  up ; 
For  every  cloud  engenders  not  a  storm. 

Glo.  The  queen  is  valued  thirty  thousand  strong 
And  Somerset,  with  Oxford,  fled  to  her; 
If  she  have  time  to  breathe,  be  well  assur'd. 
Her  faction  will  be  full  as  strong  as  ours. 

K.  Edio.    We   are   advertis'd  by  our   loving 
friends, 
That  they  do  hold  their  course  toward  Tewkes- 
bury; 
We  having  now  the  best  at  Barnet  field. 
Will  thither  straight.  For  willingness  rids  way ; 
And.  as  we  march,  our  strength  will  be  augmented 


ACT    V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE    IT. 


In  every  county  as  we  go  along. — 
Strike  up  the  drum;  cry — Courage!  and  away. 

[£Jxeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — Plains  near  Tewkesbury. 

March.     Enter  Queen  Margaret,  Prince  Ed- 
ward, Somerset,  Oxford,  and  Soldiers. 

Q.  Mar.    Great  lords,  wise  men  ne'er  sit  and 
wail  their  loss, 
But  cheerly  seek  how  to  redress  their  harms. 
What  though  the  mast  be  now  blown  over-board, 
The  cable  broke,  the  holding  anchor  lost. 
And  half  our  sailors  swallow'd  in  the  flood  ? 
Yet  lives  our  pilot  still :  Is  't  meet,  that  he 
Should  leave  the  helm,  and,  like  a  fearful  lad. 
With  tearful  eyes  add  water  to  the  sea. 
And  give  more  strength  to  that  which  hath  too 

much  ; 
Whiles,  in  his  moan,  the  ship  splits  on  the  rock. 
Which  industry  and  courage  might  have  sav'd  ? 
Ah,  what  a  shame  I  ah,  what  a  fault  were  this  1 
Say,  Warwick  was  our  anchor :  What  of  that  ? 
And  Montague  our  top-mast :  What  of  him  ? 
Our  slaughter'd  friends  the  tackles :  What  of  these  ? 
Why,  is  not  Oxford  here  another  anchor  ? 
And  Somerset  another  goodly  mast  ? 
The  friends  of  France  our  shrouds  and  tacklings  ? 
And,  though  unskilful,  why  not  Ned  and  I 
For  once  allow'd  the  skilful  pilot's  charge  ? 
We  will  not  from  the  helm,  to  sit  and  weep ; 
But  keep  our  course,  though  the  rough  wind  say — 

no. 
From  shelves  and  rocks  that  threaten  us  with  wreck. 
As  good  to  chide  the  waves,  as  speak  them  fair. 
And  what  is  Edward,  but  a  ruthless  sea  ? 
What  Clarence,  but  a  quicksand  of  deceit? 
And  Richard,  but  a  ragged  fatal  rock  ? 
All  these  the  enemies  to  our  poor  bark. 
Say,  you  can  swim  ;  alas,  't  is  but  a  while  : 
Tread  on  the  sand  ;  why,  there  you  quickly  sink  : 
Bestride  the  rock ;  the  tide  will  wash  you  off, 
Or  else  you  famish,  that 's  a  threefold  death. 
This  speak  I,  lords,  to  let  you  understand, 
In  case  some  one  of  you  would  fly  from  us, 
That  there 's  no  hop'd-for  mercy  with  the  brothers, 
More  than  with  ruthless  waves,  with  sands,  and 

rocks. 
Why,  courage,  then  !  what  cannot  be  avoided 
'T  were  childish  weakness  to  lament,  or  fear. 

Prince.  Methinks,  a  woman  of  this  valiant  spirit 
Should,  if  a  coward  heard  her  speak  these  words, 


Infuse  his  breast  with  magnanimity. 
And  make  him,  naked,  foil  a  man  at  arms. 
I  speak  not  this,  as  doubting  any  here ; 
For,  did  I  but  suspect  a  fearful  man, 
He  should  have  leave  to  go  away  betimes ; 
Lest,  in  our  need,  he  might  infect  another. 
And  make  him  of  like  spirit  to  himself. 
If  any  such  be  here,  as  God  forbid  ! 
Let  him  depart,  before  we  need  his  help. 

Oxf.  Women  and  children  of  so  high  a  courage  I 
And    warriors    faint !    why,  't    were    perpetual 

shame. — ■ 
O,  brave  young  prince  !  thy  famous  grandfather 
Doth  live  again  in  thee :  Long  may'st  thou  live, 
To  bear  his  image,  and  renew  his  glories  I 

Som.    And  he,  that  will  not  fight  for  such  a 
hope. 
Go  home  to  bed,  and,  like  the  owl  by  day, 
If  he  arise,  be  mock'd  and  wonder'd  at. 

Q.  Mar.  Thanks,  gentle  Somarset ; — sweet  Ox- 
ford, thanks. 

Prince.    And  take  his  thanks,  that  yet  hath 
nothing  else. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.    Prepare  you,  lords,  for  Edward  is  at 
hand. 
Ready  to  fight ;  therefore  be  resolute. 

Oxf.  I  thought  no  less  :  it  is  his  pohcy. 
To  haste  thus  fast,  to  find  us  unprovided. 

Som.  But  he  's  deceiv'd,  we  are  in  readiness. 
Q.  Mar.  This  cheers  my  heart,  to  see  your  for- 
wardness. 
Oxf.  Here  pitch  our  battle,  hence  we  will  not 
budge. 

March.     Enter,  at  a   distance,  King   Edward, 
Clarence,  Gloster,  and  Forces. 

K.  Edw.  Brave  followers,   yonder  stands  the 
thorny  wood. 
Which,   by    the    heavens'    assistance,    asa   your 

strength. 
Must  by  the  roots  be  hewn  up  yet  ere  night. 
I  need  not  add  more  fuel  to  your  fire, 
For,  well  I  wot,  ye  blaze  to  burn  them  out: 
Give  signal  to  the  fight,  and  to  it,  lords. 

Q.  Mar.  Lords,  knights,  and  gentlemen,   vhat 
I  should  say. 
My  tears  gainsay  ;  for  every  word  I  speak. 
Ye  see,  I  drink  the  water  of  mine  eyes. 
Therefore,  no  more  but  this : — Henry,  yofli*  sove- 
reign,     '^ 

989 


ACT   V. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SOEHB    V. 


Is  prisoner  to  the  foe ;  his  state  usurp'd, 
His  realm  a  slaughterhouse,  his  subjects  slain, 
His  statutes  cancell'd,  and  his  treasure  spent ; 
And  yonder  is  the  wolf,  that  makes  this  spoil. 
You  fight  in  justice :  then,  in  God's  name,  lords, 
Be  valiant,  and  give  signal  to  the  fight. 

[Exeunt  both  Armies. 

SCENE  Y.— Another  Part  of  the  Same. 

Alarums :  Excursions :  and  afterwards  a  Retreat. 
Then  Enter  King  Edwakd,  Clarence,  Glos- 
TER,  and  Forces;  with  Queen  Margaret,  Ox- 
ford, and  Somerset,  Prisoners. 

K.  Edw.    Now,  here  a  period  of  tumultuous 
broils. 
Away  with  Oxford  to  Hammes'  castle  straight  :'* 
For  Somerset,  off  with  his  guilty  head. 
Go,  bear  them   hence;    I  will   not   hear   them 
speak. 
Oxf.  For  my  part,  I  '11  not  trouble  thee  with 

words. 
Som.  Nor  I,  but  stoop  with  patience  to  my  for- 
tune.    \Exeunt  Oxf.  and  Som.  guarded. 
Q.Mar,  So  part  we  sadly  in  this  troublous  world. 
To  meet  with  joy  in  sweet  Jerusalem. 

K.  Edw.    Is   proclamation   made, — that,  who 
finds  Edward, 
Shall  have  a  high  reward,  and  he  his  life  ? 

Glo.  It  is  :  and,  lo,  where  youthful  Edward 
comes. 

Enter  Soldiers,  with  Prince  Edward. 

K.  Edw.   Bring  forth  the  gallant,  let  us  hear 
him  speak : 
What !  can  so  young  a  thorn  begin  to  prick  ? 
Edward,  what  satisfaction  canst  thou  make, 
For  bearing  arms,  for  stirring  up  my  subjects. 
And  all  the  trouble  thou  hast  turn'd  me  to  ? 
Prince.  Speak  like  a  subject,  proud  ambitious 
York ! 
Suppose,  that  I  am  now  my  father's  mouth  ; 
Resign  thy  chair,  and,  where  I  stand,  kneel  thou. 
Whilst  I  propose  the  self-same  words  to  thee. 
Which,  traitor,  thou  wouldst  have  me  answer  to. 
Q.  Mar.  Ah,  that  thy  father  had  been  so  re- 

solv'd  ! 
Glo.  That  you  might  still  have  worn  the  pet- 
ticoat, 
And  ne'er  have  stol'n  the  breech  from  Lancaster. 

Prince.  Let  -^op  fable  in  a  winter's  night ; 
His  currish  riddles  sort  not  with  this  place. 


Glo.  By  heaven,  brat,  I  '11  plague  you  for  that 

word. 
Q.  Mar.  Ay,  thou  wast  born  to  be  a  plague  to 

men. 
Glo.  For  God's  sake,  take  away  this  captive 

scold. 
Prince,   l^&j^  take  away  this  scolding  crook- 
back  rather. 
K.  Edw.   Peace,  wilful   boy,  or  I  will   charm 

your  tongue. 
Clar.  Untutor'd  lad,  thou  art  too  malapert. 
Prince.  I  know  my  duty,  you  are  all  undutiful  • 
Lascivious  Edward, — and  thou  perjur'd  George, — 
And  thou  misshapen  Dick, — I  tell  ye  all, 
I  am  your  better,  traitors  as  ye  are ; — 
And  thou  usurp'st  my  father's  right  and  mine. 
K.  Edw.  Take  that,  the  likeness  of  this  raile: 
here."  [^Sto&s  him 

Glo.    Sprawl'st  thou  ?   take  that  to   end  thj 
agony.  [Glo.  stabs  him- 

Clar.  And  there 's  for  twitting  me  with  perjury. 

[Clar.  stabs  him. 
Q.  Mar.  0,  kill  me  too  ! 

Glo.  Marry,  and  shall.  [  Offers  to  kill  her. 

K.  Edw.  Hold,  Richard,  hold,  for  we  have  done 

too  much. 
Glo.  Why  should  she  live,  to  fill  the  world  with 

words  ? 
K.  Edw.  What !  doth  she  swoon  ?  use  means 

for  her  recovery. 
Glo.    Clarence,   excuse    me    to    the  king   my 
brother ; 
I  '11  hence  to  London  on  a  serious  matter : 
Ere  ye  come  there,  be  sure  to  hear  some  news. 
Clar.  What?  what? 

Glo.  The  Tower,  the  Tower !  [Exit. 

Q.  Mar.    O,  Ned,  sweet  Ned  !    speak  to  thy 
mother,  boy  ! 
Canst  thou  not  speak  ! — 0  traitors !  murderers  ! — 
They,  that  stabb'd  Caesar,  shed  no  blood  at  all, 
Did  not  offend,  nor  were  not  worthy  blame, 
If  this  foul  deed  were  by,  to  equal  it. 
He  was  a  man ;  this,  in  respect,  a  child ; 
And  men  ne'er  spend  their  fury  on  a  child. 
What's  worse  than  murderer,  that  I  may  name  it! 
No,  no ;  my  heart  will  burst,  an  if  I  speak : — 
And  I  will  speak,  that  so  my  heart  may  burst. — 
Butchers  and  villains,  bloody  ct.nnibals ! 
How  sweet  a  plant  have  you  untimely  cropp'd  ! 
You  have  no  children,  butchers !  if  you  had, 
The  thought  of  them  would  have  stirr'd  up  re- 
morse : 


ACT    V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


SCENE  VI. 


But,  if  you  ever  chance  to  have  a  child, 

ZiOok  in  his  youth  to  have  him  so  cut  off,*® 

As,  deathsmen !  you  have  rid  this  sweet  young 


prince 


K.  Edw.  Away  with  her  ;  go,  bear  her  hence 

perforce. 
Q.  Mar.  Nay,  never  bear  me  hence,  despatch 
me  here ; 
Here   sheath   thy  sword,   I  '11  pardon    thee  my 

death  : 
What !  wilt  thou  not? — then,  Clarence,  do  it  thou. 
Clar.  By  heaven,  I  will  not  do  thee  so  much 

ease. 
Q.  Mar.    Good  Clarence,  do ;  sweet  Clarence, 

do  thou  do  it. 
Clar.    Didst  thou  not  hear  me  swear,  I  would 

not  do  it. 
Q.  Mar.  Ay,  but  thou  usest  to  forswear  thyself; 
'T  was  sin  before,  but  now  't  is  charity. 
What !    wilt   thou   not  ?    where   is   that   devil's 

butcher, 
Hard-favour'd  Richard  ?    Richard,  where  art  thou  ? 
Thou  art  not  here  :  Murder  is  thy  alms-deed ; 
Petitioners  for  blood  thou  ne'er  put'st  back. 
K.  Edw.  Away,  I  say ;  I  charge  ye,  bear  her 

hence. 
Q.  Mar.  So  come  to  you,  and  yours,  as  to  this 
prince  !  [Exit,  led  out  forcibly. 

K.  Edw.  Where  's  Richard  gone  ? 
Clar.  To  London,  all  in  post ;  and,  as  I  guess. 
To  make  a  bloody  supper  in  the  Tower, 

K.  Edw.  He  's  sudden,  if  a  thing  comes  in  his 
head. 
Now  march  we  hence  :  discharge  the  common  sort 
With  pay  and  thanks,  and  let 's  away  to  London, 
And  see  our  gentle  queen  how  well  she  fares ; 
By  this,  I  hope,  she  hath  a  son  for  me.     \Exeunt, 

SCENE  VL— London.     A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

King  Henry  is  discovered  sitting  with  a  Booh  in 
his  hand,  the  Lieutenant  attending.  Enter 
Gloster. 

Olo.  Good  day,  my  lord  !    What,  at  your  book 

so  hard  ? 
K.  Hen.  Ay,  my  good  lord :  My  lord,  I  should 
say  rather ; 
'T  is  sin  to  flatter,  good  was  little  better : 
Good  Gloster,  and  good  devil,  were  alike. 
And  both  preposterous  ;  therefore,  not  good  lord. 
Glo.  Sirrah,  leave  us  to  ourselves :  we  must 
confer.  [Exit  Lieut. 


K.  Hen.  So  flies  the  reckless  shepherd  from  the 
wolf: 
So  first  the  harmless  sheep  doth  yield  his  fleece. 
And  next  his  throat  unto  the  butcher's  knife. — 
What  scene  of  death  hath  Roscius  now  to  act  f 

Glo.  Suspicion  always  haunts  the  guilty  mind. 
The  thief  doth  fear  each  bush  an  officer. 

K.  Hen.  The  bird,  that  hath  been  fimed  in  a 
bush. 
With  trembling  wings  misdoubteth  every  bush : 
And  I,  the  hapless  male  to  one  sweet  bird, 
Have  now  the  fatal  object  in  my  eye. 
Where  my  poor  young  was  lim'd,  was  caught, 
and  kill'd. 

Glo.    Why,  what  a  peevish  fool  was  that  of 
Crete, 
That  taught  his  son  the  ofiice  of  a  fowl ! 
And  yet,  for  all  his  wings,  the  fool  was  drown'd. 

K.  Hen.  I,  Daedalus  ;  my  poor  boy,  Icarus ; 
Thy  father,  Minos,  that  denied  our  course  ; 
The  sun,  that  sear'd  the  wings  of  my  sweet  boy, 
Thy  brother  Edward ;  and  thyself,  the  sea, 
Whose  envious  gulf  did  swallow  up  his  life. 
Ah,  kill  me  with  thy  weapon,  not  with  words  : 
My  breast  can  better  brook  thy  dagger's  point. 
Than  can  my  ears  that  tragic  history. — 
But  wherefore  dost  thou  come  ?  is  't  for  my  life  ? 

Glo.  Think'st  thou,  I  am  an  executioner  ? 

K.  Hen.  A  persecutor,  I  am  sure,  thou  art ; 
If  murdering  innocents  be  executing. 
Why,  then  thou  art  an  executioner. 

Glo.  Thy  son  I  kill'd  for  his  presumption. 

K.  Hen.    Hadst  thou  been  kill'd,  when  first 
thou  didst  presume, 
Thou  hadst  not  liv'd  to  kill  a  son  of  mine. 
And  thus  I  prophesy,  that  many  a  thousand. 
Which  now  mistrust  no  parcel  of  my  fear ; 
And   many   an   old   man's   sigh,   and   many   a 

widow's, 
And  many  an  orphan's  water-standing  eye, — 
Men  for  their  sons,  wives  for  their  husbands' 

fate, 
And  orphans  for  their  parents'  timeless  death, — 
Shall  rue  the  hour  that  ever  thou  wast  born. 
The  owl  shriek'd  at  thy  birth,  an  evil  sign  ; 
The  night-crow  cried,  aboding  luckless  time  ; 
Dogs  howl'd,  and  hideous  tempests  shook  down 

trees ; 
The  raven  rook'd  her  on  the  chimney's  top,** 
And  chattering  pies  in  dismal  discords  sung. 
Thy  mother  felt  more  than  a  mother's  pain. 
And  yet  brought  forth  less  than  a  mother's  hope; 

991 


/ 


ACT    V. 


THIRD  PART  OF 


SCENE   VII. 


To  wit, — an  indigest  deformed  lump, 

Not  like  the  fruit  of  such  a  goodly  tree. 

Teeth  hadst  thou  in  thy  head,  when  thou  wast 

born, 
To  signify, — thou  cam'st  to  bite  the  world  : 
And,  if  the  rest  be  true  which  I  have  heard, 

Thou  cam'st 

Glo.  I  '11  hear  no  more  ; — Die,  prophet,  in  thy 

speech ;  \_Stahs  Mm. 

For  this,  amongst  the  rest,  was  I  ordain'd. 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  and  for  much  more  slaughter  after 

this. 

0  God  1  forgive  ray  sins,  and  pardon  thee !     [Dies. 
Glo.    What,  will  the  aspiring  blood  of  Lan- 
caster 

Sink  in  the  ground  ?    I  thought  it  would  have 

mounted. 
See,  how  my  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  king's 

death  ! 

0,  may  such  purple  tears  be  always  shed 

From  those  that  wish  the  downfal  of  our  house ! — 
If  any  spark  of  life  be  yet  remaining, 
Down,  down  to  hell ;  and  say — I  sent  thee  thither, 

l^Stahs  him  again. 

1,  that  have  neither  pity,  love,  nor  fear. — 
Indeed,  't  is  true,  that  Henry  told  me  of; 
For  I  have  often  heard  my  mother  say, 

1  came  into  the  world  with  my  legs  forward  : 
Had  I  not  reason,  think  ye,  to  make  haste, 
And  seek  their  ruin  that  usurp'd  our  right  ? 
The  midwife  wonder'd ;  and  the  women  cried, 
"  O,  Jesus  bless  us,  he  is  born  with  teeth  !" 
And  so  I  was;  which  plainly  signified  — 

That  I  should  snarl,  and  bite,  and  play  the  dog. 
Then,  since  the  heavens  have  shap'd  my  bdHy  so, 
Let  hell  make  crook'd  my  mind  to  answer  it. 
I  have  no  brother,  I  am  like  no  brother ; 
And   this    word  —  love,    which    greybeards   call 

divine. 
Be  resident  in  men  \\\.q  one  another, 
And  not  in  me  ;  I  am  myself  alone. — 
Clarence,   beware ;    thou    keep'st   me   from   the 

_   light; 
But  I  will  sort  a  pitchy  day  for  thee : 
For  I  will  buzz  abroad  such  prophecies, 
That  Edward  shall  be  fearful  of  his  life ; 
And  then,  to  purge  his  fear,  I  '11  be  thy  death. 
King  Henry,  and  the  prince  his  son,  are  gone : 
Clarence,  thy  turn  is  next,  and  then  the  rest ; 
Counting  myself  but  bad,  till  I  be  best. — 
I  '11  throw  thy  body  in  another  room. 
And  triumph,  Henry,  in  thy  day  of  doom.   [Exit. 
992 


SCENE  \ll.—The  Same.  A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

King  Edward  is  discovered  sitting  on  his  Throne  ; 
Queen  Elizabeth  with  the  infant  Prince, 
Clarence,  Gloster,  Hasiings,  and  Others, 
near  him. 

K.  Edw.  Once  more  we  sit  in  England's  royal 

throne, 
Re-purchas'd  with  the  blood  of  enemies. 
What  valiant  foemen,  like  to  autumn's  corn. 
Have  we  mow'd  down,  in  tops  of  all  their  pride 
Three  dukes  of  Somerset,  threefold  renown'd 
For  hardy  and  undoubted  champions  : 
Two  Clifibrds,  as  the  father  and  the  son, 
And  two  Northumberlands ;  two  braver  men 
Ne'er   spurr'd    their    coursers    at   the    trumpet's 

sound : 
With  them,  the  two  brave  bears,  Warwick  and 

Montague, 
That  in  their  chains  fetter'd  the  kingly  lion. 
And  made  the  forest  tremble  when  they  roar'd. 
Thus  have  we  swept  suspicion  from  our  seat, 
And  made  our  footstool  of  security. — 
Come  hither,  Bess,  and  let  me  kiss  my  boy : — 
Young  Ned,  for  thee,  thine  uncles,  and  myself. 
Have  in  our  armours  watch'd  the  winter's  night ; 
Went  all  a-foot  in  summer's  scalding  heat, 
That  thou  might'st  repossess  the  crown  in  peace ; 
And  of  our  labours  thou  shalt  reap  the  gain. 
Glo.  I  '11  blast  his  harvest,  if.  your  head  were 

laid  ; 
For  yet  I  am  not  look'd  on  in  the  world. 
This  shoulder  was  ordain'd  so  thick,  to  heave ; 
And  heave  it  shall  some  weight,  or  break  my 

back : — 
Work  thou  the  way, — and  thou  shalt  execute.^ 

\Aside. 
K.  Edw.  Clarence,  and  Gloster,  love  my  lovely 

queen ; 
And  kiss  your  princely  nephew,  brothers  both. 

Clar.  The  duty,  that  I  owe  unto  your  majesty, 
I  seal  upon  the  lips  of  this  sweet  babe. 

K.  Edw.  Thanks,  noble  Clarence ;  worthy  bro- 
ther, thanks.'*" 
Glo.    And,  that  I  love  the  tree  from  whence 

thou  sprang'st. 
Witness  the  loving  kiss  I  give  the  fruit : — 
To  say  the  truth,  so  Judas  kiss'd  his 

master;  S-  J  w 

And  cried — all  ^ail !  when  as  he  meant 

— all  harm. 


KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


8CENK   TH. 


K.  Edw.  Now  am  I  seated  as  my  soul  delights, 
Having  my  country's  peace,  and  brothers'  loves. 

Clar.  What  will  your  grace  have  done  with 
Margaret  ? 
Rwgnier,  her  father,  to  the  king  of  France 
Hath  pawn'd  the  Sicils  and  Jerusalem, 
A.nd  hither  have  they  sent  it  for  her  ransom. 


K.  Edw.  Away  with  her,  and  waft  her  hence 
to  France. 
And  now  what  rests,  but  that  we  spend  the  time 
With  stately  triumphs,  mirthful  comic  shows, 
Such  as  befit  the  pleasures  of  the  court  ? 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets ! — farewell,  sour  aunoy  J 
For  here,  I  hope,  begins  our  lasting  joy.   [Exeunt. 

MS 


NOTES  TO  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


(PART   THE    THIRD.) 


Speak  thmfor  »/w,  and  teli  them  what  J  did. 

There  are  doubta  as  to  the  exact  time  when  Eichard  was 
bora ;  but  this  is  evidently  an  anachronism.  Mr.  Elderton 
Bupposes  him  to  have  been  born  at  Fotheringay  castle,  on 
the  21st  of  October,  1454.  Assuming  this  calculation  to 
be  correct,  he  would  have  been  but  one  year  old  at  the 
time  of  the  first  battle  of  St.  Albans;  and  in  the  fifth  act 
of  this  play,  where  he  is  represented  as  stabbing  king 
Henry  in  the  Tower,  not  more  than  sixteen  years  and 
eight  months.  By  other  historians  it  is  supposed  that  his 
birth  occurred  about  two  years  earlier. 

'  Dare  xtir  a  wing  if  Warwick  shakes  his  lells. 

That  is,  if  Warwick  arms  himself  for  opposition ;  the 
metapnor  is  borrowed  from  falconry.  The  hawks  some- 
times had  little  bells  hung  upon  them,  perhaps  to  terrify 
lao  birds,  and  prevent  them  from  rising. 

8  The  loss  of  those  three  lords  torments  my  heart. 

Ho  alludes  to  Northumberland,  Westmoreland,  and  Clif- 
ford, who  had  left  him  from  disgust  at  his  weakness. 

'■  tVhy,  how  now,  sons  and  brother. 

Montague  was  a  brother  of  Warwick,  and  not  of  York ; 
Mr.  Steevens,  tnerefore,  thinks  we  should  read  cousin  in- 
Btead  of  brother,  which  was  the  relationship  between 
Idem.  York  may,  however,  apply  the  word  as  a  term  of 
affection — meaning  brother  in  arms. 

»  But  H  was  ere  I  was  born. 

This  is  an  error;  according  to  Hall,  the  historian,  Kut- 
land  was  twelve  years  old  when  he  was  killed  by  Clifford. 
The  battle  of  St.  Albans,  in  which  old  CliiTord  was  slain, 
happened  in  1455 ;  that  of  Wakefield  in  1460 ;  Eutland 
was  therefore  seven  years  old  at  the  death  of  the  father  of 
his  destroyer 

«  My  uncles  both  are  slain  i?i,  rescuing  me. 
These  were  two  bastard  uncles  by  the  mother's  side,  Sir 
John  and  Sir  Hugh  Mortimer. 

T  We  hodg^d  again. 

Bodg'd  probably  means  boggled,  we  made  unskilful  and 
t>unglirig  work  of  it;  but  some  commeut^itors  would  read 
'iidged,  \.  e.,  fled.    Thus  in  Coriolanus — 
994 


The  mouse  ne'er  shunn'd  the  cat,  as  they  dirt  tnjMg* 
From  rascals  worse  than  they. 

*  Or  as  {he  south  to  the  septentrion. 

The  septentrion  is  the  north.    The  same  word  is  used  bv 
Milton  as  an  adjective — 

Cold  septentrion  blasts. 


•  Bc^zle  mine  eyes,  or  do  I  see  three  suns  f 

This  singular  phenomenon  is  thus  described  by  \\  rlin- 
shed  : — "  At  which  tyme  the  sun  (as  some  write)  appca'cd 
to  the  carle  of  March  like  three  sunnes,  and  sodainely  joynca 
altogether  in  one,  uppon  whiche  sight  hee  tooke  suoh  cou- 
rage, that  he  fiercely  setting  on  his  enemys,  put  iJioni  to 
flight;  and  for  this  cause  menne  ymagined  that  lie  gave 
the  sun  in  his  full  bryghtness  for  his  badge  or  cognisance." 
The  reader  will  see  that  the  old  chronicler  does  not  appein 
to  place  any  great  faith  in  this  supernatural  appearance. 
At  this  time,  he  says,  the  sun,  as  some  write,  &c. ;  ho  does 
not  assert  the  truth  of  it  himself. 

'"  And  happy  always  was  itfor4luit  »An, 
Whase  father  for  his  hoarding  iDent  to  hell. 
Henry  means,  that  it  was  well  for  the  son  that  the  father 
should  be  punished  for  his  sins  in  his  own  pewon,  icateod 
of  their  being  visited  upon  his  children. 

"  iJarraign  your  uiiitle. 
That  is,  range  your  troops ;  put  them  in  fighting  order 

»'  /  would  your  highness  woxdd  depart  the  field  ,• 
The  queen  hath  best  success  when  you  are  absent, 

Henry  was  so  spiritless,  and  invariably  unfortunate, 
that  it  at  length  grew  into  a  belief  that  his  presence  in  llie 
fleld  of  battle  was  an  evil  omen  auguring  defeat.  This  su- 
perstition is  thus  alluded  to  by  Drayton,  in  The  Miseries  o, 
Queen  Margaret — 

Some  think  that  Warwick  had  not  lost  the  day, 
But  that  the  king  into  the  field  he  brought; 
For  with  the  worse  that  side  went  still  away 
Which  had  king  Henry  with  them  when  they  fought- 
Upon  his  birth  so  sad  a  curse  there  lay. 
As  that  he  never  prospered  in  aught. 
The  queen  wan  too,  among  the  loss  of  many, 
Her  husband  absent ;  present,  never  any. 


NOTES  TO  THE  THIRD  PART  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


"  But  like  afoul  misshapen  stigmatic. 

A  stigmatic  denoted  a  criminal  who  had  been  branded 
or  stigmatized  with  a  hot  iron  as  a  token  of  punishment. 
It  is  applied  to  Richard  in  allusion  to  his  deformity,  meau- 
mg  that  he  is  branded  by  nature  as  a  man  to  be  avoided. 

■<  Asif  achunnel  nhould  be  calVd  the  seu. 

A.  channel  in  Shakespeare's  time  signified  what  we  now 
call  a  kennel.  Thus  in  Stowe's  Chronicle,  1605,  "  such  a 
stornie  of  raine  happened  at  London,  as  the  like  of  long 
tinifi  could  not  be  remembered;  wherethrough,  the  chan- 
nel/^ of  the  citie  su  idonly  rising,"  &c. 

.     .  ^  A  whisp  of  straw. 

It  would  appear  tl  at  a  wliisp  of  straw,  twisted  into  the 
form  of  a  crown  or  head-dress,  was  sometimes  placed  upon 
termagant  women  as  a  disgrace.  Thus,  in  A  Dialogue  he- 
:weeH  John  and  Joan,  striving  who  shall  wear  the  Breeches. — 
/  'Icasures  of  Poetry,  no  date — 

Good  gentle  J  one,  with-holde  thy  hands. 

This  once  let  me  entreat  thee, 
And  make  me  promise,  never  more 

That  tliou  slialt  mind  to  beat  me. 
For  feare  thou  toeare  the  wispe,  good  wife. 

And  make  our  neighbours  ride. 

»•  AWumgh  thy  husband  may  be  Menelwus. 
That  is,  may  be  a  cuckold. 

»'  0  boy,  thy  father  gave  thee  life  too  soon, 
And  Jiath  bereft  thee  of  thy  life  too  late. 

The  meaning  of  this  obscure  passjige  appears  to  be,  \\\] 
father  gave  thee  life  too  soon  ;  for  hadst  thou  been  born 
later,  thou  hadst  been  yet  a  boy,  and  therefore  not  en- 
gaged in  this  fearful  battle.  And  he  hath  bereft  thee  of 
thy  life  too  late  ;  for  it  would  have  been  better  that  thou 
hadst  perished  in  infancy  than  have  lived  to  be  killed  by 
thy  father  in  early  manhood. 

18  And  so  obsequious  shall  thy  father  be. 
C5««^«io««  is  here,  carel'ul  of  obsequies,  or  funeral  rites. 

19  Pqj.  Gloster''8  dukedom  is  too  amino  as. 

Eichard  is  alluding  to  Thomas  of  Woodstock  and  Hum- 
phrey, the  two  previous  dukes  of  Gloster,  who  were  both 
murdered.  The  author  probably  had  in  his  mind  the  fol- 
lowing pa-ssage  from  Hall's  Qhronicle : — "  It  seemeth  to 
many  men  that  the  name  and  title  of  Gloucester  hath  bene 
unfortunate  and  unluckie  to  diverse,  whiche  for  their 
nonour  have  bene  erected  by  creation  of  princes  to  that 
style  and  diguitie ;  as  Hugh  Spencer,  Thomas  of  Wood- 
stocke,  (who  was  killed  at  Bury  ;)  whiche  three  persons  by 
miserable  death  finished  their  dales  ;  and  after  them  king 
Richard  the  iii.,  also  duke  of  Gloucester,  in  civil  warre  was 
slain  and  confounded :  so  that  this  name  of  Gloucester  is 
taken  for  an  unhappie  and  unfortunate  stile,  as  the  pro- 
verbe  speaketh  of  Sejanes  horse,  whose  ryder  was  ever 
•znhorsed,  and  whose  possessor  was  ever  brought  to 
uisery." 

^oZaund,  Le.,  lawn,  a  plain  extended  between  two 
woods. 


"'  Because  in  quarrel  of  the  house  of  York, 
The  worthy  gentleman  ditl  lose  his  life. 

This  is  an  error ;  Sir  John  Gre_>  was  killed  at  the 
second  battle  of  St.  Albans,  fighting  on  the  side  of  king 
Henry ;  and  his  estate  was  seized,  not  by  Margaret,  bui 
by  Edward. 

^^  Or  an  unlick'd  bear-whelp. 

An  opinion  anciently  prevailed  that  the  bear  brings 
forth  only  shapeless  lumps  of  animated  flesh,  which  she 
licks  into  the  form  of  bears;  and  to  this  absurdity  Eichard 
alludes.  Eoss,  in  his  Arcana  microcosmi,  states  that  it  is 
true  that  bears  bring  forth  their  young  apparently  do- 
formed  and  misshapen,  as  the  cubs  are  born  wrapped  up 
in  a  thick  membrane,  which  is  covered  with  a  mucilagi- 
nous matter,  and  thus  gives  them  the  appearance  of  mis- 
shapen lumps.  The  mucilage  is  licked  away  by  the  dam, 
and  the  membrane  broken,  when  the  cub  appears  in  ita 
natural  shape. 

^  Enter  Warwick,  attended. 

Mr.  Eitson  says, — "  There  needs  no  other  proof  how 
little  our  common  histories  are  to  be  depended  upon,  than 
this  fabulous  story  of  Warwick  and  the  Lady  Bona.  The 
king  was  privately  married  to  Lady  Elizabeth  Woodville, 
in  1403,  and  in  February,  14t;5,  Warwick  actvuxUy  stood 
sponsor  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  their  first  child.  What 
secretly  displeased  him  was  : — first,  the  king's  marrying 
one  of  the  queen's  sisters  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham ; 
secondly,  his  conferring  the  otlicu  of  lord  treasurer  (which 
he  had  taken  from  Lord  Montjoy,)  upon  Lord  Eivers,  the 
queen's  brother;  thirdly, — his  making  a  match  between 
the  son  and  heir  of  Lord  Herbert  and  another  of  the 
queen's  sisters ;  and  between  that  nobleman's  daughter 
and  the  young  Lord  Lisle ;  and  creating  young  Herbert 
knight  and  Lord  of  Dimstar;  fourthly, — his  making  a 
match  between  Sir  Thomas  Grey,  the  queen's  son,  and 
Lady  Ann,  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  Duke  of  Exeter, 
the  king's  niece,  who  had  been  talked  of  as  a  wife  for  the 
Earl  of  Northumberland,  Warwick's  brother. — See  Wilhel- 
mi  Wyrcester  Annates,  which  are  unfortunately  defective 
from  the  beginning  of  November,  1468,  at  which  time  no 
open  rupture  had  taken  place  between  the  king  and  War- 
wick, who,  for  anything  that  appears  to  the  contrary,  were, 
at  least,  upon  speaking  terms." 

='■'  Did  I  let  pass  the  abuse  done  to  my  mece  ? 

It  is  supposed,  that  before  the  rupture  between  Wht- 
wick  and  Edward,  the  latter  repaid  the  services  of  the 
great  earl  by  an  attempt  to  violate  his  niece  or  daughter. 
Holinshed  thus  refers  to  this  singular  and  ungrateful 
outrage : — "  King  Edward  did  attempt  a  thing  once  in  the 
carle's  house,  which  was  much  against  the  eurle's  hones- 
tie  (whether  he  would  have  deflowered  his  daughter  or  his 
niece,  the  certaintie  was  not  for  both  their  honours  reveal- 
ed), for  surely  such  a  thing  was  attempted  by  King  Ed- 
ward." 

*^  Pll  a  join  mine  eldest  daughter. 

This  is  an  error ;  Margaret's  son,  Edward,  was  n);irriod 
to  Warwick's  youngest  daughter,  the  Tady  Anne. 

26  /  was  not  ignoble  of  descent. 

Her  mother  was  Jaqueline,  the  widow  of  the  celebrated 
Duke  of  Bedford,  regent  of  France,  and  brother  of  Henry 
the  Fifth.    Her  ftither  was  Sir  Richard  Woodville,  who  had 

9<J5 


NOTES  TO  THE  THIUD  PAUT  OF  KING  HENRY  THE  SIXTH. 


been  previously  a  private  gentleman,  but,  after  his  daugh- 
ter's marriage  with  Edward,  was  raised  to  the  raiik  of  Earl 
Rivers. 

3'  Belike,  the  elder  ;  Clare/ice  will  have  the  younger. 

Tliis  error  I  have  before  noticed;  Clarence  was  engaged 
to,  and  eventually  married,  the  Lady  Isabella,  Warwick's 
eldest  daughter. 

"  With  sleif/lit  and  manhood  stole  to  Rhesus'  tents, 
And  hrovghtfrom  thence  the  Thraclari  fatal  steeds. 

Rhesus  was  a  warlike  king  of  Thnice,  who  assisted  Priam 
in  the  defence  of  Troy  against  t!ie  Greeks.  An  ancient 
oracle  had  declared  that  Troy  should  never  be  taken  while 
tlie  horses  of  Khesus  drank  the  waters  of  tlie  X:mthu3,  and 
fed  upon  the  grass  of  the  Trojan  plains.  The  Greeks  being 
acquainted  with  this  prophecy,  deputed  two  of  tlieir  bra- 
vest generals,  Diomedes  and  Ulysses,  to  capture  these  horses 
either  by  craft  or  force.  They  accordingly  stole  to  the  tent 
of  Khesus  in  the  night,  and  having  killed  him,  carried  away 
liis  horses  to  their  camp. 

29  For  few  men  rightly  temper  with  the  stars. 

That  is,  adopt  themselves  to  their  own  talents  and  des- 
tiny ;  Warwick  is  commending  Henry's  wisdom  in  giving 
into  stronger  hands  a  government  wliioh  lie  found  himself 
unable  to  conduct. 

">  My  meed  hath  got  me  fame. 

Meed,  here  means  not  reward  or  recompense,  but  merit. 
Henry's  reputation  for  meekness  and  sanctity  had  procured 
him  fame ;  men  having  got  over  their  disappointment  in 
not  finding  him  a  hero,  were  pleased  to  discover  him  to  be 
a  saint. 

"  A  Lancaster  !  A  Lancaster  ! 
As  Edward  and  his  party  are  here  the  invaders,  the 
shouts  should  be,  A  York!  a  York!  unless  we  suppose 
tliem  to  come  from  Henry's  guard,  on  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  their  adversaries. 

**  And,  lords,  Unvards  Coventry  tend  we  our  course, 
Where  ferem/ptory  Warwick  now  remains. 
Warwick  has  but  just  left  the  stage,  declaring  his  intoa- 
996 


tion  to  go  to  Coventry  ;  he  could  not  yet  have  arrived  theie, 
nor  could  Edward  have  been  acquainted  with  his  intention. 
Shakespeare  was  le<i  into  this  impropriety  by  the  old  play, 
and  copied  the  error  without  examination. 

s'  But,  whiles  he  thought  to  steal  the  single  ten-, 
The  king  was  slily  finger'' d fro-m  the  deck! 

That  is,  from  the  pack ;  a  pack  of  cards  was  anciently 
called  a  deck  of  cards. 

2*  To  Ilammes''  castle  straight. 

This  was  a  castle  in  Ficardy,  where  Oxford  was  confined 
for  many  years. 

'*  Take  that,  the  likeness  of  this  railer  here. 
That  is,  thou  that  art  the  likeness  of  this  railer  here,  i. «. 
his  mother,  Queen  Margaret. 

2»  But,  if  you  ever  chance  to  have  a  child, 
Look  in  his  youtli  to  have  him  so  cut  off. 

This  warning  by  Margaret  is  prophetic ;  Edward's  chil- 
dren were  cut  off  by  violence. 

s'  What  scene  of  death  hath  Roseius  now  to  act. 

Eoscius,  the  famous  Koman  actor,  was  a  comedian  ;  but 
Shakespeare,  wishing  to  compare  Richard  to  some  player 
about  to  represent  a  scene  of  murder,  took  the  first  or  only 
name  of  antiquity  that  occurred  to  him,  without  being  very 
particular  about  its  propriety. 

38  Tfie  raven  rooked  her  on  the  chimney''s  top. 

To  rook,  or  rather,  to  ruck,  is  a  north-country  word, 
meaning  to  sauat  down,  or  lodge  on  anything. 

'*  Work  thou  the  way, — and  thou  sluiU  exeoute. 
I  think  we  should  read, — and  this  shall  execute. 

4»  Tl tanks,  noble  Clarence;  worthy  Irother,  thanks. 

The  first  and  second  folios  have,  by  mistake,  given  this 
line  to  Clarence.  Mr.  Steevens  tells  us,  that  in  his  copy  of 
the  second  folio,  which  had  oelonged  to  Charles  the  First, 
the  king  had  erased  Cla.,  and  written  King  in  its  stead. 
The  catalogue  of  the  -estorers  of  Shakesjeare  therefore  in- 
cludes a  royal  name. 


I 


LIFE    AND   DEATH  OF 


ling  1Rirl)nrii  tl)p  €^A 


'PUIS  reniarkable  tragedy  is  properly  tlie  conclusion  of  the  three  parts  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  and  with 
it  terminates  Shakespeare's  unbroken  series  of  dramas  on  English  histoiy.  The  battle  of  Bos- 
worth  Field  was  the  last  war  of  the  Roses ;  and  the  conflicting  claims  of  the  liouses  of  York  and 
Lancaster  were  united  and  buried  in  the  person  of  Henry  the  Seventh. 

This  play,  though  called  The  Life  and  Death  of  King  Richard  the  Third^  is  in  reality  the  his- 
tory only  of  Richard's  intrigues  for  th.e  throne,  and  of  his  brief  reign,  which  lasted  but  for  two  years 
and  two  months.  But  Shakespeare  was  never  particular  about  chronological  propriety  ;  and  although 
this  play,  strictly  speaking,  comprises  but  a  period  of  seven  years,  for  it  commences  with  the  arrest  of 
Clarence,  which  happened  in  the  beginning  of  1478,  and  terminates  with  the  death  of  Richard  at 
the  battle  of  Bosworth,  which  was  fought  on  the  22nd  of  August,  1485  ;  yet  the  second  scene  carries 
us  back  a  period  of  seven  years  more,  to  the  funeral  of  the  unhappy  Henry  the  Sixth,  which  took 
place  in  May,  14Y1  ;  so  that  the  events  of  fourteen  years  are  irregularly  contained  in  it, 

Richard  and  Margaret  stand  out  prominently  from  the  drama,  two  dark  and  awful  creations  ; 
the  one  a  subtle  fiend,  covering  a  satanic  spirit  with  a  mask  of  meekness ;  the  other  r:n  avenging 
being,  threatening  God's  wrath  upon  the  destroyers  of  her  family  and  party.  Years  of  sutfering 
seem  to  have  elevated  the  active  and  intellectual  Margaret  into  something  above  humanity  :  sorrow 
is  the  school  of  inspiration,  and  long  watching  had  taught  her  to  look  with  an  understanding  eye 
into  the  gloomy  future.  Her  first  entrance  is  grand  and  startling  ;  she  is  like  one  resuscitated  from 
the  dead  to  denounce  the  sins  of  the  living,  and  her  imprecations  upon  the  blood-stained  members 
of  the  court  of  Edward  are  fearfully  awful  and  harrowing.  In  her  curses  and  prophecies  are  to  be 
found  the  germ  of  the  action ;  she  addresses  herself  to  each  one  that  had  been  instrumental  in  the 
destruction  of  her  family,  and  reveals  the  wrath  in  store  for  them  :  the  queen,  she  prophesies,  shall, 
like  her,  "die  neither  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  queen."  She  prays  God  that  Rivers,  Dorset,  and 
Hastings  may  be  suddenly  cut  off' by  violence  as  a  punishment  for  their  participation  in  the  death  ol 
her  son  Edward.  To  Richard  she  foretells  his  brief  career  of  terror,  and  infers  his  death  ;  and  she 
warns  Buckingham,  who  scorns  her  counsel,  that  he  will  remember  it  another  day,  when  Richard 
shall  split  his  very  heart  with  sorrow.  Crying  out,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  soul,  on  the  treachery  Oi 
the  house  of  York,  she  appeals  to  heaven,  and  vehemently  exclaims — 

O  God,  that  see'st  it,  do  not  suffer  it ; 
As  it  was  won  with  blood,  lost  be  it  so  ! 

The  poet  represents  the  eternal  Providence  as  listening  to  and  granting  this  fearful  prayer,  and  the 
action  of  the  tragedy  is  the  realization  of  Margaret's  prophetic  maledictions.  Steevens  objects  to  this 
scene,  and  says — "Margaret,  bullying  the  court  of  England  in  the  royal  palace,  is  a  circumstance  as 
al)surd  as  the  courtship  of  Gloster  in  a  public  street."  It  may  be  so,  but  the  tragic  grandeur  of  the 
incident  more  thaii  outweighs  its  improbability.     While  criticism  requires  likelihood  {^nd  consistency 

997 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


with  truth  from  an  author,  it  must  not  become  too  literal  and  exacting;  if  so,  it  breaks  the  poet's 
wing,  and  dooms  him  for  ever  to  grovel  on  the  ground. 

Richard  is  brave  and  haughty  ;  a  polished  courtier,  a  crafty  statesman,  and  a  perfect  hypocrite. 
Jle  is  fond  of  deceiving  under  the  form  of  religion,  and  "  seems  a  saint  vphen  most  he  plays  the 
devil ;"  yet,  although  he  tramples  upon  its  principles  in  every  act  of  his  life,  he  does  not  appear  to 
reject  and  disbelieve  them.lrHe  has  a  touch  of  superstitious  awe  respecting  futurity ;  he  does  not 
deny  immortality  and  hell,  but  is  satisfied  to  risk  eternal  peril  for  present  gratification.  When 
visited  by  his  awful  dream  on  the  eve  of  battle,  he  calls  on  the  sacred  name  for  mercy;  like  the 
ueviis,  he  believes  and  trembles.  Though  he  resembles  lago  in  many  points,  he  differs  from  him  in 
this:  lago  has  no  conscience,  is  never  touched  by  compunction  or  repentance,  and  is  utterly  indif- 
ferent respecting  a  future  state,  the  existence  of  which  he  does  not  appear  to  credit.  lago  regards 
futurity  as  a  fable,  but  Richard  believes  and  defies  it.  Richard  is  witty  and  satirical,  exceedingly 
proud  of  his  eloquence  and  cunning;  he  triumphs  in  his  success  in  winning  Lady  Anne's  consent  to 
become  his  wife,  and  in  talking  over  the  queen  dowager  to  woo  her  daughter  for  him.  These  scenes 
have  both  been  censured  as  unnatural ;  but  it  may  be  observed  that  the  eloquence  of  princes  seldom 
fails  of  success.  Edward's  widow  was  a  vain  intriguing  woman,  who  was  determined  to  have  her 
daughter  a  queen  if  possible;  she  was  in  reality  ready  enough  to  marry  her  to  Richard,  and  when 
that  design  failed,  she,  with  equal  readiness,  contracted  her  to  Richmond. 

Richard's  remarkable  energy,  and  intellectual  power,  bear  him  undaunted  through  his  career  of 
violence;  Margaret's  imprecations,  or  his  mother's  curse  when  she  takes  her  eternal  leave  of  him, 
never  for  a  moment  appal  his  heart,  or  turn  him  from  his  purposes ;  his  firm  and  resolute  mind  com- 
mands our  respect,  if  not  our  admiration.  He  is  a  striking  instance  of  great  intellect  allied  to  an  utter 
want  of  principle  or  heart ;  he  seems  rather  above  than  deficient  in  human  aflfections.  His  mind  is 
further  embittered  by  his  personal  deformity;  he  laments  that  Nature  has  robbed  him  of  the  love  of 
woman,  therefore  he  will  renounce  love,  and  seek  for  happiness  alone  in  regal  power.  He  is  terrible 
in  the  intensity  of  his  selfishness,  and  possessed  of  a  gigantic  egotism,  which  induces  him  to  regard 
even  murder  as  an  insignificant  matter  in  comparison  with  the  realization  of  his  ambition.  He  will 
not  recognize  afiinity  of  blood,  but  exclaims  : — 

1  have  no  brother,  I  am  like  no  brother : 

And  this  word — love,  which  greybeards  call  divine, 

Be  resident  in  men,  like  one  another. 

And  not  in  me ;  I  am  mysexjf  alone. 

He  lives  to  himself,  and  requires  no  sympathy  from  others  ;  but,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  tragedy,  he 
is  oppressed  by  the  multitude  of  opposing  circumstances — treachery  and  desertion  environ  him,  doubt 
and  feverish  excitement  weaken  his  strong  mind ;  he  gives  contradictory  orders,  and  on  the  eve  of 
battle  complains  of  the  loss  of  his  ordinary  cheerfulness  and  alacrity.  Then  in  his  sleep  he  is  visited 
by  a  long  tiain  of  spectres;  the  spirits  of  those  whom  he  had  slain  encourage  his  rival,  and  bid  him 
despair.  This  vision  lifts  the  veil  which  hides  the  future  from  us,  and  indicates  the  eternal  doom  of 
the  tyrant.  The  poet  thought  that  it  was  not  suflScient  that  so  great  a  villain  should  die  upon  the 
field  of  battle,  but  he  shows  him  on  the  verge  of  the  pit  of  eternal  darkness  and  lamentation. 

If  we  except  the  two  young  princes  in  the  Tower,  the  victims  of  Richard's  cruelty  do  not  excite 
our  commiseration  at  their  fate  :  Clarence  deserved  his  death  for  repeated  treacheries ;  we  cannot  pity 
Hastings,  for  he  triumphs  in  the  unjust  execution  of  his  adversaries,  when,  though  unknowingly, 
within  an  hour  of  his  own  doom;  and  we  experience  a  satisfaction  in  the  execution  of  Buckingham, 
who  in  villany  is  only  second  to  Richard  himself;  while  poor  Queen  Anne  is  so  feeble  and  inconsis- 
tent a  character  that  she  is  forgotten  in  the  long  list  of  sufferers. 

The  murder  of  Clarence  is  traced  with  a  vivid  pencil ;  his  dream  previous  to  that  event  is  a  fear- 
ful picture  of  the  terrors  of  conscience  ;  the  poet  justly  represents  him  sufiering  in  this  manner,  for 
his  whole  life  had  been  a  scene  of  selfishness  and  treachery.  Indeed  the  house  of  York  cannot  boast 
one  virtuous  and  noble  member ;  the  curse  of  innocent  blood  seems  to  have  rested  upon  it,  for  king 
Edward  was  the  only  one  of  that  turbulent  family  who  did  not  die  by  violence,  though  I  may  also 

ttftS 


KING  KICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


except  Cicely,  the  aged  dowager  duchess  of  York,  who  lived  to  see  her  husband,  children,  and  grand- 
cLildren  perish  successively  on  the  battle-field,  the  public  scaflfold,  or  in  the  secret  dungeon. 

The  dialogue  between  the  two  ruffians  who  murder  Clarence  is  very  fine ;  one  of  those  remark- 
able episodes  seldom  found  but  in  the  pages  of  Shakespeare.  Savage  as  is  their  nature,  they  are 
human  in  comparison  with  the  master-spirit  of  this  tragedy  ;  they  hesitate  on  the  threshold  of  mur- 
der, and  talk  merely  to  delay  an  act  which  they  fear  to  commit.  Like  Hamlet,  when  reasoning  on 
suicide,  they  almost  argue  themselves  out  of  their  evil  resolution.  The  accidental  mention  of  the 
word  judgment  breeds  remorse  in  one  of  the  assassins  ;  the  terrors  of  the  great  day  of  judgment 
present  themselves  in  a  misty  but  appalling  form  to  his  mind,  and  he  determines  that  the  duke  shall 
live.     But  the  other  suggests  the  reward,  and  the  villain  is  steel  again. 

Shakespeare  gave  additional  exaltation  to  the  Earl  of  Richmond,  by  making  him  slay  Richard 
with  his  own  hand.  This  was  not  the  case  ;  Richard's  eagle  eye  having  caught  sight  of  his  adver- 
sary surrounded  by  a  staff  of  officers,  he  thought  to  end  the  battle  by  a  single  blow,  and  therefore 
spurred  furiously  towards  him,  killing  two  gentlemen  of  distinction  who  opposed  his  impetuous 
charge,  but  immediately  afterwards  was  himself  surrounded  and  slain.  The  few  adherents  who  re- 
mained faithful  to  Richard  seem  to  have  shared  his  fate.  Norfolk  and  Ratcliffe  were  found  dead 
upon  the  field,  and  Catesby  was  executed  by  Richmond  immediately  after  the  battle.  Considering 
the  interests  involved  in  this  action,  it  was  not  conducted  on  a  very  extensive  scale;  both  armies 
did  not  amount  to  more  than  eighteen  thousand  men,  and  of  these  scarcely  three  thousand  perished. 
The  fate  of  a  great  kingdom  was,  perhaps,  never  before  decided  by  so  small  a  power. 

This  tragedy  was  first  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  October  20,  1597,  and  is  sipposed  by  Mr 
Malone  to  have  been  written  in  the  same  year. 


FEKSONS    KEPRESENTED. 


King  Edward  the  Fourth. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  Son  to  the  King,  after- 
wards King  Edward  the  Fifth. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Richard,  Duke  of  York,  Son  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  1. 

George,  Duke  of  Clarence,  Brother  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4. 

Richard,  Duke  o/" Gloucester,  Brother  to  the  King, 
and  afterwards  King  Richard  the  Third. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3.  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2. 
Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  5  ;  sc.  7.  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8. 
sc.  4,    Act  V.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4. 

A  Young  Sou  of  Clarence. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2. 

HENRr,  Earl  ©/"Richmond,  afterwards  King  Henry 

the  Seventh. 

Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4. 

Cardinal  Bourchier,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Thomas  Rotheram,  Archbishop  of  York. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4. 

John  Morton,  Bishop  of  Ely. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  4. 

Duke  of  Buckingham. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  8.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 

BC.  2 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc  5;  sc.  7.    Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Duke  of  Norfolk. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  8 ;  sc.  4. 

Earl  of  Surrey,  his  Son. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  8. 

Earl  Rivers,  Brother  to  King  Edward's  Queen. 
Appears^  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  8. 

Marquis  op  Dorset,  Son  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Appears,  A.<itl.hc.Z.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    ActlV.  bc.1. 

Lord  Grey,  Son  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  8.    Act  II.  so.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  8. 

Earl  of  Oxford. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8. 

Lord  Hastings. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  III. 

HO.  1 ;  so.  2 ;  so.  4. 

Lord  Stanley. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  8.  Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  2;  sc.  4. 

Act  IV.  BO.  1 ;  80. 2 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  5.    Act  V.  sc.  8 ;  bc.  4. 

Lord  Lovel. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  4 ;  so.  6. 
1000 


Sir  Thomas  Vaughan. 
Ap2)ears,  Act  III.  sc.  3. 

Sir  Richard  Ratcliffe. 

Appears,  A^Qitll.  so.  %    Act  III.  so.  3 ;  sc.  5.    ActlV.sc.4. 

Act  V.  sc.  3. 

Sir  William  Catesby. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  8.    Act  III.  sc.  1;  sc.  2;  sc.  4;  so.  5; 

sc.  7.    Act  IV.  BO.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  3  •  bo.  4. 

Sir  James  Tyrrel. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  so.  8. 

Sir  James  Blunt. 
Sir  Walter  Herbert. 
Appear,  Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8. 

Sir   Robert   Brakenbury,   Lieutenant   of  the 
Tower. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

Christopher  Urswick,  a  Priest. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  5. 

Another  Priest. 
A  Pursuivant. 

Appear,  Act  111.  sc.  2. 

Lord  Mayor  of  London. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  5 ;  so.  7. 

Sheriff  of  Wiltshire. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Two  Murdkreks. 
Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  8 ;  sc.  4. 

A  Scrivener. 

Appears.  Act  III.  sc.  6. 

Elizabeth,  Queen  q/"  Edward  the  Fourth. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.     Act  11.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2;  se.  4.    Act  IV. 

sc.  1 ;  sc.  4. 

Margaret,  Widow  ©/"King  Henry  the  Sixth. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.     Act  IV,  sc.  4. 

Duchess  of  York,  Mother  to  King  Edward  the 

Fourth,  Clarence,  and  Gloucester. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.   Act  IV,  kc.  1 ;  sc,  4. 

Lady  Anne,  Widotv  of  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales, 

Son  to  King  Henry  the  Sixth,  afterwards 

married  to  the  Duke  of  Gloucester. 

Appears,  Act  I,  so.  2.    Act  IV,  sc.  1 . 

A  Young  Daughter  of  Clarence. 
Appears,  Act  11.  se,  2.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Attendants,   Citizens,  Messen- 
gers, Ghosts,  Soldiers,  d;c. 

SCENE,— England. 


LIFE   AND   DEATH  OF 


Hiiig  llirjiiirii  tlje  CjiirL 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I.— London.     A  Street. 

filter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Now  is  the  winter  of  our  discontent 
Made  glorious  summer  by  this  sun  of  York;' 
'\nd  all  tlie  clouds,  that  lower'd  upon  our  house, 
in  the  deep  hosoui  of  the  ocean  buried. 
Now  ;!re  our  brows  bound  with  victorious  wreaths  ; 
(.)ar  bruised  arms  hung  up  for  monuments ; 
Our  stern  alarums  chang'd  to  merry  meetings, 
Our  dreadful  marches  to  delightful  measures. 
Grim-visag'd  war   hath    smooth'd   his    wrinkled 

front ; 
And  now, — instead  of  mounting  barbed  steeds, 
To  fright  the  souls  of  fearful  adversaries, — 
He  capers  nimbly  in  a  lady's  chamber, 
To  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute. 
But  I, — that  am  not  shap'd  for  sportive  tricks. 
Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass ; 
I,  that  am  rudely  stamped,  and  want  love's  majesty. 
To  strut  before  a  wanton  ambling  nymph ; 
I,  that  am  curtail'd  of  this  fair  proportion. 
Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 
Deform'd,  unfinish'd,  sent  before  my  tin)e 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  u[), 
And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionable, 
That  dogs  bark  at  me,  as  I  halt  by  them  ; — 
Why  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace, 
Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time ; 
Unless  to  spy  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 
And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity; 
And  therefore, — since  I  cannot  prove  a  lover, 
To  entertain  these  fair  well-spoken  days, — 

126 


I  am  determined  to  prove  a  villain, 
And  hate  the  idle  pleasures  of  these  days. 
Plots  have  I  laid,  inductions  dangerous, 
By  drunken  prophecies,  libels,  and  dreams, 
To  set  my  brother  Clarence,  and  the  king, 
In  deadly  hate  the  one  against  the  other: 
And,  if  king  Edward  be  as  true  and  just, 
As  I  am  subtle,  false,  and  treacherous, 
This  day  should  Clarence  closely  be  raew'd  up ; 
About  a  prophecy,  wliich  says — that  G 
Of  Edward's  heirs  the  murderer  shall  be. 
Dive,  thoughts,  down  to  my  soul !  here  Clarence 
comes. 

Enter  Clarence,  guarded,  and  Brakenguky. 

Brother,  good  day :  What  means  this  armed  guard, 
That  waits  upon  your  grace  ? 

Clar.  His  majesty, 

Tendering  my  person's  safety,  hath  appointed 
This  conduct  to  convey  me  to  the  Tower. 

Glo.  Upon  what  cause  ? 

C/ar.  Because  my  name  is — George. 

Glo.    Alack,   my   lord,   that  fault  is  none  of 
yours  ; 

He  should,  for  that,  commit  your  godfathers : 

O,  belike,  his  majesty  hath  some  intent,  M 
That  you  shall  be  new  christen'd  in  the  Tower. 
But  what  's  the  matter,  Clarence  ?  may  I  kno\w 

Clar.    Yea,    Richard,   when    I   know ;    for,* 
protest,  ^ 

As  yet  I  do  not :  But,  as  I  can  learn. 
He  hearkens  after  prophecies,  and  dreams  ; 
A  ud  froir  the  cross-row  plucks  the  letter  G, 

1001 


ACT   I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    1. 


And  says — a  wizard  told  him,  that  by  G 
His  issue  disinherited  should  be  ; 
And,  for  niy  name  of  George  begins  with  G, 
It  follows  in  his  thought,  that  I  am  he : 
These,  as  I  learn,  and  such  like  toys^  as  these, 
Have  mov'd  his  highness  to  commit  me  now. 

Glo.  Why,  this  it  is,  when  men  are  rul'd  by 
women  : — 
'T  is  not  the  king,  that  sends  you  to  the  Tower ; 
My  lady  Grey,  his  wife,  Clarence,  't  is  she, 
Tliat  tempers  him  to  this  extremity. 
Was  it  not  she,  and  that  good  man  of  worship, 
Antony  Woodeville,  her  brother  there. 
That  made  him  send  lord  Hastings  to  the  Tower, 
From  whence  this  present  day  he  is  deliver'd  ? 
We  are  not  safe,  Clarence,  we  are  not  safe. 

Clar.    By  lieaven,   I   think,  there  is  no   man 
secure, 
But  the  queen's  kindred,  and  night- walking  heralds 
That  trudoe  betwixt  the  kino;  and  mistress  Shore. 
Heard  you  not,  what  an  humble  suppliant 
Lord  Hastings  was  to  her  for  his  delivery  ? 

Glo.  Humbly  complaining  to  her  deity 
Got  my  lord  chamberlain  his  liberty. 
I  'U  tell  you  what, — I  think,  it  is  our  way, 
If  we  will  keep  in  favour  with  the  king. 
To  be  her  men,  and  vear  her  livery  : 
The  jealous  o'er-worr.  widow,  and  herself, 
Since  that  our  brother  dubb'd  them  gentlewomen, 
Are  mighty  gossips  in  this  monarchy. 

Brak.  I  beseech  your  graces  both  to  pardon  me  ; 
His  majesty  hath  straitly  given  in  charge, 
That  no  man  shall  have  private  conference, 
Of  what  degree  so  ever,  with  his  brother. 

Glo.  Even  so  ?  an  please  your  worship,  Braken- 
bury. 
You  may  partake  of  any  thing  we  say  : 
We  speak  no  treason,  man ; — We  say,  the  king 
Is  wise,  and  virtuous ;  and  his  noble  queen 
Well  struck  in  years ;  fair,  and  not  jealous  : — 
We  say,  that  Shore's  wife  hath  a  pretty  foot, 
A  cherry  lip, 

A  bonny  eye,  a  passing  plesising  tongue  ; 
And  the  queen's  kindred  are  made  gentlefolks  : 
How  sajUj'ou,  sir?  can  you  deny  all  this  ? 

Brak.   With  tliis,  my  lord,  myself  nave  nought 
to  do. 

Glo.  Naught  to  do  with  mistress  Shore  ?    I  tell 
thee,  fellow. 
He  that  doth  naught  with  her,  excepting  one. 
Were  best  to  do  it  secretly,  alone. 

Brtk.  What  one,  my  lord  ? 
1002 


Glo.    Her   husband,   knave  : — Would'st    thou 

betray  me  ? 
Brak.    I  beseech  your  grace  to  pardon  me ; 
and,  withal, 
Forbear  your  conference  with  the  noble  duke. 
Clar.  We  know  thy  chai'ge,  Brakenbury,  and 

will  obey. 
Glo.    We  are  the  queen's  abjects,'  and  must 
obey. 
Brother,  farewell :  I  will  unto  the  king  ; 
And  whatsoever  you  will  employ  me  in, — 
Were  it,  to  call  king  Edward's  widow — sister, — 
I  will  perform  it  to  enfranchise  you. 
Mean  time,  this  deep  disgrace  in  brotherhood, 
Touches  me  deeper  than  you  can  imagine. 
Clar.  I  know  it  pleaseth  neither  of  us  well. 
Glo.  Well,  your  imprisonment  shall  not  be  long  j 
I  fvill  deliver  you,  or  else  lie  for  you  i* 
Mean  time,  have  patience. 

Clar.  I  must  perforce  ;  farewell. 

\Exeunt  Clak.,  Brak.,  and  Guard. 
Glo.  Go,  tread  the  path  that  thou  shalt  ne'er 
return. 
Simple,  plain  Clarence  ! — I  do  love  thee  so, 
That  I  will  shortly  send  thy  soul  to  heaven. 
If  heaven  will  take  the  present  at  our  hands. 
But  who  comes  here  ?  the  new-deliver'd  Hastings  ? 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hast.  Good  time  of  day  unto  my  gracious  lord  ! 
Glo.  As  much  unto  my  good  lord  chamberlain  1 
Well  are  you  welcome  to  this  open  air. 
How  hath  your  lordship  brook'd  imprisonment  ? 
Hast.  With  patience,  noble  lord,  as  prisoners 
must : 
But  I  shall  live,  my  lord,  to  give  them  thanks. 
That  were  the  cause  of  ray  imprisonment. 

Glo.  No  doubt,  no  doubt ;  and  so  shall  Clar- 
ence too  ; 
For  they,  that  were  your  enemies,  are  his, 
And  have  prevail'd  as  much  on  him,  as  you. 
Hast.    More  pity,   that  the    eagle  should  be 
mew'd. 
While  kites  and  buzzards  prey  at  liberty. 
Glo.  What  news  abroad  ? 
Hast.    No    news   so    bad    abroad,  as    this   at 
home  ; — 
The  king  is  sickly,  weak,  and  melancholy, 
And  his  physicians  fear  him  mightily. 

Glo.    Now,  by  Saint  Paul,  this  news  is  bad  in- 
deed. 
O,  he  hath  kept  an  evil  diet  long,* 


iCT    I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    11. 


And  ovei  much  consum'd  his  royal  person ; 
'T  is  very  grievous  to  be  thought  upon. 
Wiiat,  is  he  in  his  bed  ? 

Hast.  He  is. 

Glo.  Go  you  before,  and  I  will  follow  you. 

lExit  Hast. 
He  cannot  live,  I  hope ;  and  must  not  die, 
Till  George  be  pack'd  with  posthaste  up  to  heaven. 
I  '11  in,  to  ui'ge  his  hatred  more  to  Clarence, 
With  lies  well  steel'd  with  weighty  arguments  ; 
And,  if  I  fail  not  in  my  deep  intent, 
Clarence  hath  not  another  day  to  live : 
Which  done,  God  take  king  Edward  to  his  mercy. 
And  leave  the  world  for  me  to  bustle  in  ! 
For  then  I  '11  marry  Warwick's  youngest  daughter : 
What  though  I  kill'd  her  husband,  and  her  father  ? 
The  readiest  way  to  make  the  wench  amends. 
Is — to  become  her  husband,  and  her  father : 
The  which  will  I ;  not  all  so  much  for  love, 
As  for  another  secret  close  intent, 
By  marrying  her,  which  I  must  reach  unto. 
But  yet  I  run  before  my  horse  to  market : 
Clarence  still   breathes  ;  Edward  still   lives,  and 

reigns  ; 
\Tien  they  are  gone,  then  must  I  couut  my  gains. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II.— Tjgksame.     Another  Street. 

Lhiter  the  Corpse  o/"King  Henry  the  Sixth,  borne 
in  an  open  Coffin,  Gentlemen  hearing  Halberds, 
to  guard  it;  and  Lady  Anne  as  Mourner. 

Anne.    Set  down,  set  down  your  honourable 

load, — 
If  honour  may  be  shrouded  in  a  hearse, — 
Whilst  I  a  while  obsequiously  lament 
Ihe  untimely  fall  of  virtuous  Lancaster. — 
Poor  key-cold  figure  of  a  holy  king  !^ 
Pale  ashes  of  the  house  of  Lancaster  ! 
Thou  bloodless  remnant  of  that  royal  blood  ! 
Be  it  lawful  that  I  invocate  thy  ghost. 
To  hear  the  lamentations  of  poor  Anne, 
Wife  to  thy  Edward,  to  thy  slaughter'd  son, 
Stabb'd  by  the  self-same   hand  that  made  these 

wounds ! 
[yo,  in  these  windows,  that  let  forth  thy  life, 
I  pour  the  helpless  balm  of  my  poor  eyes  : — 
(~),  cursed  be  the  hand  that  made  these  holes ! 
Cursed  the  heart,  that  had  the  heart  to  do  it  ! 
Cursed  the  blood,  that  let  this  blood  from  hence! 
More  direful  hap  betide  that  hated  wretch, 
That  makes  us  wretched  by  the  death  of  thee. 


Than  I  can  wish  to  adders,  spiders,  toads. 
Or  any  creeping  venom'd  thing  that  lives ! 
If  ever  he  have  child,  abortive  be  it, 
Prodigious,  and  untimely  brought  to  light, 
Whose  ugly  and  unnatural  aspect 
May  flight  the  hopeful  mother  at  the  view ; 
And  that  be  heir  to  his  unhappiness  1' 
If  ever  he  have  wife,  let  her  be  made 
More  miserable  by  the  death  of  him, 
Than  I  am  made  by  my  yoiir.g   oid,  and  thee  !-^- 
Come,  now,  toward  Chertsey  with  your  holy  load, 
Taken  from  Paul's  to  be  interred  there ; 
And,  still  as  you  are  weary  of  the  weight. 
Rest  you,  whiles  I  lament  king  Henry's  corse. 
\The  Bearers  take  up  the  Corpse,  and  advance 


Enter  Glostek. 


Glo. 


Stay  you,  that  bear  the  corse,  and  set  it 
down. 
Anne.  What  black  magician  conjures  up  this 
fiend. 
To  stop  devoted  charitable  deeds  ? 

Glo.  Villains,  set  down  the  corse ;  or,  by  Saint 
Paul, 
I  '11  make  a  corse  of  him  that  disobeys. 

\st  Gent.  My  lord,  stand  back,  and  let  the  coffin 

pass. 
Glo.    Unmanner'd    dog !    stand   thou  when  I 
command  : 
Advance  thy  halberd  higher  than  my  breast. 
Or,  by  Saint  Paul,  I  'II  strike  thee  to  my  foot, 
And  spurn  upon  thee,  beggar,  for  thy  boldness. 

\The  bearers  set  down  the  Coffin. 
Anne.    What,   do  you   tremble  ?    are  you   all 
afraid  ? 
Alas,  I  blame  you  not ;  for  you  are  mortal, 
And  mortal  eyes  cannot  endure  the  devil.  -- 
Avaunt,  thou  dreadful  minister  of  hell ! 
Thou  had'st  but  power  over  his  mortal  body, 
His  soul  thou  canst  not  have ;  therefore,  be  gone, 
Glo.  Sweet  saint,  for  charity,  be  not  so  curst. 
Anne.    Foul  devil,  for  God's  sake,  hence,  and 
trouble  us  not ; 
For  thou  hast  made  the  happy  earth  thy  hell, 
Fill'd  it  with  cursing  cries,  and  deep  exclaftns. 
If  thou  delight  to  view  thy  heinous  deeds, 
Behold  this  pattern  of  thy  butcheries  : — 
O,  gentlemen,  see,  see !  dead  Henry's  wounds 
Open  their  congeal'd  mouths,  and  bleed  afresh!* — 
Blush,  blush,  thou  lump  of  foul  deformity ; 
For  't  is  thy  presence  that  exhales  this  blood 
From  cold  and  empty  veins,  where  no  blood  dwells ; 

lOOS 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THH^D. 


Tliv  deed,  iidiuinan  and  unnatural, 

Provokes  this  deluge  most  unnatural. 

O   God,   which    this    blood    mad'st,   revenge  his 

death  ! 
O  earth,  which    this    blood    drink'st,   revenge  his 

death  ! 
Either,   heaven,  with   lightning  strike   tho  mur- 
derer dead. 
Or,  earth,  gape  open  wide,  and  eat  him  quick; 
As  thou  dost  swallow  up  this  good  king's  blood, 
Which  his  hell-govern'd  arm  hath  butchered  ! 

Glo.  Lady,  you  know  no  rules  of  charily, 

Wliich  renders  good  for  bad,  blessings  for  curses. 

Anne.  Villain,  thou  know'st  no  law  of  God  nor 

man  ; 

No  beast  so  fierce,  but  knows  some  touch  of  pity. 

Glo.    lint  I  know  none,  and   therefore  am  no 

beast. 
Anne.  O  wonderful,  when  devils  tell  the  truth  ! 
Glo.    More  wonderful,  when  angels  are  so  an- 

gi'y-— 

Vouchsafe,  divine  perfection  of  a  woman, 
Of  these  supposed  evils,  to  give  me  leave, 
By  circumstance  but  to  acquit  myself. 

Anne.  Vouchsafe,  diffus'd  infection  of  a  man. 
For  these  known  evils,  but  to  give  me  leave, 
liy  circumstance,  to  curse  thy  cursed  self. 

Glo.  Fairer  than  tongue  can  name  thee,  let  me 
have 
Some  patient  leisure  to  excuse  myself 

Anne.  Fouler  than  heart  can  think  thee,  thou 
canst  make 
No  excuse  current,  but  to  hang  thyself 

Glo.  By  such  despair,  I  should  accuse  myself. 

Anne.  And,  by  despairing,  shalt  thou  stand  ex- 
cused ; 
For  doing  worthy  vengeance  on  thyself, 
That  didst  unworthy  slaughter  upon  others. 

Glo.  Say,  that  I  slew  them  not  ? 

Anne.  Why  then,  they  are  not  dead  : 

But  dead  they  are,  and,  devilish  slave,  by  thee. 

Glo.  I  did  not  kill  your  husband. 

Anne.  Why,  then  he  is  alive. 

Glo.  Nay,  he  is  dead  ;  and  slain  by  Edward's 
"   band. 

Anne.  In  thy  soul's  throat  tliou  liest ;   queen 
Margaret  saw 
Thy  murderous  faulchion  smoking  in  his  blood  ; 
The  which  thou  once  didst  bend  against  her  breast, 
But  that  thy  brothers  beat  aside  the  point. 

Glo.  I  was  provoked  by  her  sland'rous  tongue, 
That  laid  tlieir  guilt  upon  my  guiltless  shoulders. 
1004 


Anne.  Thou  wast  piovoked  by  tliv  bloody  mind, 
That  never  dreamt  on  aught  but  butcheries  : 
l)idst  thou  not  kill  this  king? 

Glo.  I  grant  ye. 

Anne.  Dost  grant  me,   hedge-hog  ?  then,  God 
grant  me  too, 
Thou  may'st  be  damned  for  that  wicked  deed  ! 
O,  he  was  gentle,  mild,  and  virtuous. 

Glo.  The  fitter  for  the  king  of  heaven  that  hath 

him. 
Anne.  He  is  in  heaven,  where  thou  shalt  never 

come. 
Glo.  Let  him  thank  me,  that  holp  to  send  him 
thither; 
For  he  was  fitter  for  that  place,  than  earth. 
An7ie.  And  thou  unfit  for  anj'  place  but  hell. 
Glo.  Yes,  one  place  else,  if  you  will  hear  me 

name  it. 
Anne.  Some  dungeon. 

Glo.  Your  bed-chamber. 

Anno.  Ill  rest  betide  tlie  chamber  where  thou 

liest ! 
Glo.  So  will  it,  madam,  till  I  lie  with  you. 
Anne.  I  hope  so. 

Glo.        I  know  so. — But,  gentle  lady  Anne, — 
To  leave  this  keen  encounter  of  our  wits, 
And  fall  somewhat  into  a  slower  method  f — 
Is  not  the  causer  of  the  timers  deaths 
Of  these  Plantagenets,  Ileni^and  Edward, 
As  blameful  as  the  executioner? 

Anne.  Thou  wast  the  cause,  and  most  accurs'd 

effect. 
Glo.  Your  beauty  was  the  cause  of  tliat  effect ; 
Your  beauty,  which  did  haunt  me  in  my  sleep. 
To  undertake  the  death  of  all  the  world. 
So  I  might  live  one  hour  in  your  sweet  bosom. 

Anne.  If  I  thought  tliat,  I  tell  thee,  homicide. 
These    nails  should    rend   that  beauty  from   my 
cheeks. 
Glo.  These  eyes  could  not  endure  that  beauty's 
wreck. 
You  sliould  not  blemish  it,  if  I  stood  by  : 
As  all  the  world  is  cheered  by  the  sun. 
So  I  by  that ;  it  is  ray  day,  my  life. 

Anne.  Black  night  o'ershade  thy  day,  and  death 

thy  life! 
Glo.  Curse  not  thyself,  fair  creature ;  thou  art 

both. 
Anne.  1  would  I  were,  to  be  reveng'd  on  thco 
Glo.  It  is  a  quarrel  most  unnatural, 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him  that  loveth  thee. 
xinne.  It  is  a  quarrel  just  and  reasonable. 


ACT    1 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENB  n. 


To  be  reveng'd  on  him  that  kill'd  my  husband. 

Glo.  He  that  bereft  thee,  lady,  of  thy  husband, 
Did  it  to  help  thee  to  a  better  husband. 

Anne.  His  better  doth  not  breathe  upon  the 
earth. 

Glo.  He  lives,  that  loves  you  better  than  he 
could. 

Anne.  Name  him. 

Gk  Plantagenet. 

Anne.  Why,  that  was  he. 

Glo.  The  self-same  name,  but  one  of  better  na- 
ture. 

An~€.  Where  is  he  ? 

Glo.  Here  :  [She  spits  at  him.]  Why 

dost  thou  spit  at  me  ? 

Anr.e.  'Would  it  wei'e  mortal  poison  for  thy 
sake ! 

Glo.  Never  came  poison  from  so  sweet  a  place. 

Anne.  Never  hung  poison  on  a  fouler  toad. 
Out  of  my  sight !  thou  dost  infect  mine  eyes. 

Glo.  Thine  eyes,  sweet  lady,  have  infected  mine. 

"^nne.  'Would  they  were  basilisks,  to    strike 
thee  dead ! 

Glo.  I  would  they  were,  that  I  might  die  at 
once, 
For  now  they  kill  me  with  a  living  death. 
Those  eyes  of  thine  from  mine  have  drawn  salt 

tears,      ^ 
Sliam'd  their  aspects  with  store  of  childish  drops  : 
These  eyes,  which  never  shed  remorseful  tear, — 
Not,  when  my  father  York  and  Edvvard  wept. 
To  hear  the  piteous  moan  that  Rutland  made. 
When  black-fac'd  Clifford  shook  his  sword  at  him  : 
Nor  when  thy  warlike  father,  like  a  child. 
Told  the  sad  story  of  my  father's  death  ; 
And  twenty  times  made  pause,  to  sob,  and  weep, 
That  all  the  standers-by  had  wet  their  cheeks. 
Like  trees  bedash'd  with  rain :  in  that  sad  time, 
My  manly  eyes  did  scorn  an  humble  tear  ; 
And  what  these  sorrows  could  not  thence  exhale. 
Thy   beauty  hath,  and    made  them  blind   with 

weeping. 
I  never  su'd  to  friend,  nor  enemy  ; 
My  tongue  could  never  learn  sweet  soothing  word ; 
But  now  thy  beauty  is  propos'd  my  fee, 
My  proud  heart  sues,  and  prompts  my  tongue  to 
speak.         [She  looks  scornfully  at  him. 
Teach  not  thy  lip  such  scorn  ;  for  it  was  made 
For  kissing,  lady,  not  for  such  contempt. 
If  thy  revengeful  heart  cannot  forgive, 
Lo  I  here  I  lend  thee  this  sharp-pointed  sword ; 
Which  if  thou  please  to  hide  in  this  true  breast, 


And  let  the  soul  forth  that  adoreth  thee, 

I  lay  it  naked  to  the  deadly  stroke, 

And  humbly  beg  the  death  upon  my  knee. 

[He  lays  his  Breast  open;  she  offers  at  it 
with  his  Sioord. 
Nay,  do  not  pause;  for  I  did  kill  king  Henry  ; — 
But  't  was  thy  beauty  that  provoked  me. 
Nay,  now  despatch;  't  was  I  that  stabb'd  young 
Edward  ; — 

[She  again  offers  at  his  Breast. 
But  't  was  thy  heavenly  face  tiiat  set  me  on. 

[She  lets  fall  the  Sword. 
Take  up  the  sword  again,  or  take  up  me. 

Anne.  Arise,  dissembler :    though  I  wish  thy 
death, 
I  will  not  be  thy  executioner. 

Glo.  Then  bid  me  kill  myself,  and  I  will  do  it. 

Anne.  I  have  already. 

Glo.  That  was  in  thy  rage: 

Speak  it  again,  and,  even  with  the  word. 
This  hand,  which,  for  thy  love,  did  kill  thy  love. 
Shall,  for  thy  love,  kill  a  far  truer  love  ; 
To  both  their  deaths  shalt  thou  be  accessary. 

Anne.  I  would,  I  knew  thy  heart. 

Glo.  'T  is  figur'd  in 

My  tongue. 

Anne.  I  fear  me,  both  are  false. 

Glo.  Then  man 

Was  never  true;. 

Anne.  Well,  well,  put  up  your  sword. 

Glo,  Say  then,  my  peace  is  made. 

Anne.  That  shall  you  know 

Hereafter.. 

Glo.  But  shall  I  live  in  hope  ? 

Anne.  All  men, 

1  hope,  live  so. 

Glo.  Vouchsafe  to  wear  this  ring. 

Anne.  To  take,  is  not  to  give. 

[She  puts  on  the  Ring. 

Glo.  Look,   how  this  ring  eucompasseth    thy 
finger. 
Even  so  thy  breast  encloseth  my  poor  heart; 
Wear  both  of  them,  for  both  of  them  are  thine. 
And  if  thy  poor  devoted  servant  may 
But  beg  one  favour  at  thy  gracious  hand. 
Thou  dost  confirm  his  happiness  for  ever. 

Anne.  What  is  it  ? 

Glo.  That   it  may  please  you  leave  these  sac. 
designs 
To  him  that  hath  more  cause  to  be  a  mourner, 
And  presently  repair  to  Crosby-place:'" 
Where — after  I  have  solemnly  interr'd, 

1005 


ACT   I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    lit. 


At  Chertsey  monast'ry,  this  noble  king, 

And  wet  his  grave  with  my  repentant  tears, — 

I  will  with  all  expedient  duty  see  you  : 

For  divers  unknown  reasons,  I  beseech  you, 

Grant  me  this  boon. 

Anne.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  much  it  joys 
me  too, 
To  see  you  are  become  so  penitent. — 
Tressel,  and  Berkley,  go  along  with  me. 

Glo.  Bid  me  farewell. 

jinne.  T  is  more  than  you  deeerve  : 

But,  since  you  teach  me  how  to  flatter  you. 
Imagine  I  have  said  farewell  already. 

[£Jxeunt  L.  Anne,  Tkes.,  and  Bfak. 

Glo.  Take  up  the  corse,  sirs. 

Gent.  Towards  Chertsey,  noble  lord  ? 

Glo.  No,   to   White-Friars ;  there    attend    my 
coming.  [^Bxeunt  the  rest,  with  the  Corse. 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  vvoo'd  ? 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humour  won  ? 
I  '11  have  her, — but  I  will  not  keep  her  long. 
What!  T,  that  kill'd  her  husband,  and  his  father, 
To  take  her  in  her  heart's  extremest  hate ; 
With  curses  in  her  mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes. 
The  bleeding  witness  of  her  hatred  by  ; 
With  God,  her  conscience,  and  these  bars  against 

me. 
And  I  no  friends  to  back  ray  suit  withal. 
But  the  plain  devil,  and  dissembling  looks. 
And  yet  to  win  her, — all  the  world  to  nothing! 
Ha! 

Hath  she  forgot  already  that  brave  prince, 
Edward,  her  lord,  whom  I  some  three   months 

since, 
Stabb'd  in  my  angry  mood  at  Tewkesbury  ?" 
A  sweeter  and  a  lovelier  gentleman, 
Fram'd  in  the  prodigality  of  nature. 
Young,  valiant,  wise,  and,  no  doubt,  right  royal, — 
The  spacious  world  cannot  again  afford  : 
And  will  she  yet  abase  her  eyes  on  me, 
That  cropp'd  the  golden  prime  of  this  sweet  prince, 
And  made  her  widow  to  a  woful  bed  ? 
On  me,  whose  all  not  equals  Edward's  moiety  ? 
On  me,  that  halt,  and  am  misshapen  thus? 
My  dukedom  to  a  beggarly  denier,'* 
I  do  mistake  my  person  all  this  while  : 
Upon  my  life,  she  finds,  although  I  cannot. 
Myself  to  be  a  marvellous  proper  man. 
I  '11  be  at  charges  for  a  looking-glass  ; 
And  entertain  a  score  or  two  of  tailors. 
To  study  fashions  to  adorn  my  body : 
j^ince  I  am  crept  in  favour  with  myself, 

1006 


I  will  maintain  it  with  some  little  cost. 
But,  first,  I  '11  turn  yon'  fellow  in  his  grave  * 
And  then  return  lamenting  to  my  love. — 
Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  have  bought  a  glass. 
That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass.  \^Exii 

SCENE  iJl.-'The  Same.    A  Room  in  the  Palace 

Writer  Queen  Elizabeth,  Lord  Rivers,  and 
Lord  Grey. 

jRiv.  Have  patience,  madam  ;  there  'a  no  doubt 
his  majesty 
Will  soon  recover  his  accustom'd  health. 

G7'e7/.    In  that  you  brook  it  ill,  it  makes  him 

worse : 

Therefore,  for  God's  sake,  entertain  good  comfort, 

And  cheer  his  grace  with  quick  and  merry  words. 

Q.  EUz.  If  he  were  dead,  what  would  betide  of 

me? 
Greij.  No  other  harm,  but  loss  of  such  a  lord. 
Q.  EUz.  The  loss  of  such  a  lord  includes  all 

harms. 
Grey.  The  heavens   have   bless'd   you  with   a 
goodly  son. 
To  be  your  comforter,  when  he  is  gone. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  he  is  young ;  and  his  minority 
Is  put  unto  the  trust  of  Richard  Gloster, 
A  man  that  loves  not  me,  nor  none  of  you. 
R'lv.  Is  it  concluded,  he  snail  be  protector? 
Q.  Eliz.  It  is  determin'd,  not  concluded  yet : 
But  so  it  must  be,  if  the  king  miscarry. 

Enter  Buckingham  and  Stanley. 

Greij.    Here    come  the  lords  of  Buckingham 

and  Stanley. 
Back.    Good    time    of    day  unto   your   royal 

grace  ! 
Slan.    God  make  your  majesty  joyful  as  you 

have  been ! 
Q.  Eliz.    The   countess  Richmond,'*  good   my 
lord  of  Stanley, 
To  your  good  prayer  will  scarcely  say — amen. 
Yet,  Stanley,  notwithstanding  she  's  your  wife. 
And  loves  not  me,  be  you,  good  lord,  assur'd, 
I  hate  not  you  for  her  proud  arrogance. 

Stan.  I  do  beseech  you,  either  not  believe 
The  envious  slanders  of  her  false  accusers; 
Or,  if  she  be  accus'd  on  true  report. 
Bear  with  her  weakness,  which,  I  think,  procee 
From  wayward  sickness,  and  no  grounded  malice. 
Q,  Eliz.  Saw  you  tlie  king  to-day,  my  lord  of 
Stanley  ? 


J^CT    1. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    III. 


Sta7i.  But  now,  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  and  I, 
A.re  come  from  visiting  his  majesty. 

Q.  JSliz.  What  Hkelihood  of  his  amendment, 

lords  ? 
Buck.    Madam,  gocd   hope  ;  his  grace  speaks 

cheerfully. 
Q.  Eliz.  God  grant  him  health  !  did  you  confer 

with  him  ? 
Buck.  Ay,  madam  :  he  desires  to  make  atone- 
ment 
Between  the  duke  of  Gloster  and  your  brothers. 
And  between  them  and  my  lord  chamberlain ; 
And  sent  to  warn  them  to  his  royal  presence. 
Q.  Eliz.  'Would  all  were  well !— But  that  will 
never  be ; — 
I  fear,  our  happiness  is  at  the  height. 

Enter  Glostkr,  Hastings,  and  Dorset. 

Glo.  They  do  me  wrong,  and  I  will  not  endure 

it  :— 
Who  are  they,  that  complain  unto  the  king 
That  I,  forsooth,  am  stern,  and  love  them  not  ? 
By  holy  Paul,  they  love  his  grace  but  lightly. 
That  fill  his  ears  with  such  dissentious  rumours. 
Because  I  cannot  flatter,  and  speak  fair. 
Smile  in  men's  faces,  smooth,  deceive,  and  cog, 
Duck  with  French  nods  and  apish  courtesy, 
1  must  be  held  a  rancorous  enemy. 
Cannot  a  plain  man  live,  and  think  no  harm. 
But  thus  his  simple  truth  must  be  abus'd 
By  silken,  sly,  insinuating  Jacks  ? 

Grey.    To  whom  in   all   this  presence  speaks 

your  grace  ? 
Glo.  To  thee,  that  hast  nor  honesty,  nor  grace. 
When    have    I   injm-'d   thee  ?    when    done    thee 

wrong  ? — 
Or  thee  ? — or  thee  ? — or  any  of  your  faction  ? 
A  plague  upon  you  all  !     His  royal  grace, — 
Whom    God    preserve    better    than    you    would 

wish  ! — 
Cannot  be  quiet  scarce  a  breathing-while. 
But  you  must  trouble  him  with  lewd  complaints. 
Q.  Eliz.  Brother  of  Gloster,  you  mistake  the 

matter  : 
The  king,  of  his  own  royal  disposition, 
And  not  provok'd  by  any  suitor  else; 
Aiming,  belike,  at  your  interior  hatred. 
That  in  your  outward  action  shows  itself. 
Against  my  children,  brothers,  and  myself. 
Makes  him  to  send ;  that  thereby  he  may  gather 
Hie  ground  of  your  ill-will,  and  so  remove  it. 
Glo.  I  cannot  tell ; — The  world  is  grown  so  bad. 


That  wrens  may  prey  where  eagles  dare  not  perch: 
Since  every  Jack  became  a  gentleman. 
There  's  many  a  gentle  person  made  a  Jack. 

Q.  Eliz.  Come,  come,  we  know  youi  meaning, 
brother  Gloster ; 
You  envy  my  advancement,  and  ray  friends' ; 
God  grant,  we  never  may  have  need  of  you ! 

Glo.  Meantime,  God  grants  that  we  have  need 
of  you : 
Our  brother  is  imprison'd  by  your  means, 
Myself  disgrac'd,  and  the  nobility 
Held  in  contempt ;  while  great  promotions 
Are  daily  given,  to  enoble  those 
That  scarce,  some  two  days  since,  were  worth  a 
noble. 

Q.  Eliz.  By  Him,  that  rais'd  me  to  this  careful 
height 
From  that  icontented  hap  which  I  enjoy'd, 
I  never  did  incense  his  majesty 
Against  the  duke  of  Clarence,  but  have  been 
An  earnest  advocate  to  plead  for  him. 
My  lord,  you  do  me  shameful  injury, 
Falsely  to  draw  me  in  these  vile  suspects. 

Glo.  You  may  deny  that  you  were  not  the  cans<^ 
Of  my  lord  Hastings'  late  imprisomnent. 

Riv.  She  may,  my  lord  ;  for 

Glo.  She  may,  lord  Rivers  ? — why,  who  knows 
not  so  ? 
She  may  do  more,  sir,  than  denying  that : 
She  may  help  you  to  many  fair  preferments ; 
And  then  deny  her  aiding  hand  therein, 
And  lay  those  honours  on  your  high  desert. 
What  may  she  not  ?    She  may, — ay,  marry,  may 
she. — 

Riv.   What,  marry,  may  she  ? 

Glo.  What,  marry,  may  she  ?  marry  with  a  king, 
k.  bachelor,  a  handsome  stripling  too : 
I  wis,  your  grandam  had  a  woi-ser  match. 

Q.  Eliz.    My  lord    of  Gloster,  I  have  too  long 
borne 
Your  blunt  upbraidings,  and  your  bitter  scoflfe : 
By  heaven,  I  will  acquaint  his  majesty. 
Of  those  gross  taunts  I  often  have  endur'd. 
I  had  rather  be  a  country  servant-maid. 
Than  a  great  queen,  with  this  condition — 
To  be  so  baited,  scorn'd,  and  stormed  at : 
Small  joy  have  I  in  being  England's  queen. 

Enter  Queen  Margaret,  behind. 

Q.  Mar.  And  lessen'd  be  that  small,  God,  T  be 
seech  thee  I 
Thy  honour,  state,  and  seat,  is  due  to  me. 

1007 


ACT   I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENJfi    111. 


Olo.  What  ?  threat  you  me  with  telling  of  the 
king  ? 
Tell  hi  111,  and  spare  not :  look,  what  I  have  said 
I  will  avouch,  in  presence  of  the  king : 
I  dare  adventure  to  be  sent  to  the  Tower. 
'T  is  time  to  speak,  my  pains  are  quite  forgot. 

Q.  Mar.  Out,  devil !  I  remember  them  too  well : 
Ihou  kill'dst  my  husband  Henry  in  the  Tower, 
And  Edward,  my  poor  son,  at  Tewkesbury. 

Glo.  Ere  you  were  queen,  ay,  or  your  husband 
king, 
I  was  a  pack-horse  in  his  great  affairs, 
A  weeder-out  of  his  proud  adversaries, 
A  libei'al  re  warder  of  his  friends  ; 
To  royalize  his  blood,  I  spilt  mine  own. 

Q.  Mar.  Ay,  and  much  better  blood  than  his, 
or  thine. 

Glo.  In  all  which  time,  you,  and  your  husband 
Grey, 
Were  factious  for  the  house  of  Lancaster ; — 
And,  Rivers,  so  were  you  : — Was  not  your  husband 
In  Margaret's  battle  at  Saint  Albans  slain  ? 
Lot  me  put  in  your  mmds,  if  you  forget. 
What  you  have  been  ere  now,  and  what  you  are ; 
Withal,  what  I  have  been,  and  what  I  am. 

Q.  Mar.    A  murd'rous  villain,  and  so  still  thou 
art. 

Olo.  Poor  Clarence  did  forsake  his  father  War- 
wick, 
A.y,   and    forswore    himself, — which     Jesu   par- 
don ! — 

Q.  Mar.  Which  God  revenge ! 

Glo.  To  fight  on  Edward's  party,  for  the  crown  ; 
And,  for  his  meed,  poor  lord,  he  is  raew'd  uj) : 
I  would  to  God,  my  heart  were  flint  like  Edward's, 
Or  Edward's  soft  and  pitiful,  like  mine  ; 
I  am  too  childish-foolish  for  this  world. 

Q.  Mar.  Hie  thee  to  hell  for  shame,  and  leave 
this  world, 
Thou  cacodsemon  !  there  thy  kingdom  is. 

Biv.  My  lord  of  Gloster,  in  those  busy  days, 
Which  here  you  urge,  to  prove  us  enemies, 
We  follow'd  then  our  lord,  our  lawful  king  ; 
So  should  we  you,  if  you  should  be  our  king. 

Glo.    If  I   should   be  ? — I   had   rather  be   a 
pedlar : 
Far  be  it  from  my  heart,  the  thought  thereof ! 

Q.  Eliz.  As  little  joy,  my  lord,  as  you  suppose 
You  should  enjoy,  were  you  this  country's  king ; 
As  little  joy  you  may  suppose  in  me. 
That  I  enjoy,  being  the  queen  thereof. 

Q.Mar.  A  little  joy  enjoys  the  queen  thereof; 

1008 


For  I  am  she,  and  altogether  joyless. 
I  can  no  longer  hold  me  patient. —     [Advancing. 
Hear  me,  you  wrangling  pirates,  that  fall  out 
In  sharing  that  which  you  have  pill'd  from  me : 
Which  of  you  trembles  not,  that  looks  ou  me  ? 
If  not,  that,  I  being  queen,  you  bow  like  subjects; 
Yet  that,  by  you  depos'd,  you  quake  like  rebels  ? — 
Ah,  gentle  villain,'''  do  not  turn  away  ! 

Glo.  Foul  wrinkled  witch,  what  mak'st  thou  in 

my  sight  ? 
Q.  Mar.  But  repetition  of  wnat  thou  hast  marr'd : 
That  will  I  make,  before  I  let  thee  go. 

Glo.  Wert  thou  not  banished  on  pain  of  death  ?" 
Q.  Mar.  I  was ;   but  I  do  find  more  pain  in 
banishment. 
Than  death  can  yield  me  here  by  my  abode. 
A  husband,  and  a  son,  thou  ow'st  to  me, — 
And  thou,  a  kingdom  ; — all  of  you,  allegiance  : 
This  sorrow  that  I  have,  by  right  is  yours ; 
And  all  the  pleasures  you  usurp,  are  mine. 

Glo.  The  curse  my  noble  father  laid  on  thee, — ■ 
When  thou  didst  crown  his  warlike  brows  with 

paper. 
And  with  thy  scorns  drew'st  rivers  from  his  eyes ; 
And  then,  to  dry  them,  gav'st  the  duke  a  clout, 
Steep'd  in  the  faultless  blood  of  pretty  Rutland  ; — 
His  curses,  then  from  bitterness  of  soul 
Denounc'd  against  thee,  are  all  fallen  upon  thee  ; 
And  God,  not  we,  have  plagu'd  thy  bloody  deed! 
Q.  Eliz.  So  just  is  God,  to  right  the  innocent. 
Hast.  O,  't  was  the  foulest  deed  to  slay  that 
babe, 
And  the  most  merciless,  that  e'er  was  heard  of. 
Riv.  Tyrants  themselves  \wept  when  it  was  re- 
ported. 
Dors.  No  man  but  prophesied  revenge  for  it. 
Buck.  Northumberland,  then  present,  wept  to 

see  it. 
Q.  Mar.  What !  were  you  snarling  all,  before 
I  came, 
Ready  to  catch  each  other  by  the  throat, 
And  turn  you  all  your  hatred  now  on  me  ? 
Did    York's  dread  curse  prevail  so  much   with 

heaven. 
That  Henry's  death,  my  lovely  Edward's  death. 
Their  kingdom's  loss,  my  woful  banishment. 
Could  all  but  answer  for  that  peevish  brat  ?'* 
Can  curses  pierce  the  clouds,  and  enter  heaven  ? 
Why,  then  give  way,  dull  clouds,  to  my  quick 

curses  ! 

Though  not  by  war,  by  surfeit  die  your  kiiig, 
As  ours  by  murder,  to  make  him  a  king ! 


KING  KICIIARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCBNS  III. 


Edward,  thy  son,  that  now  is  prince  of  Wales, 
For  Edward,  my  son,  that  was  prince  of  Wales, 
Die  in  his  youth,  by  like  untimely  violence ! 
Thvself  a  queen,  for  me  that  was  a  queen. 
Outlive  thy  glory,  like  my  wretched  self! 
Long  may'st  thou  live,  to  wail  thy  children's  loss  ; 
And  see  another,  as  I  see  thee  now, 
Deck'd  in  thy  rights,  as  thou  art  stall'd  in  mine ! 
Long  die  thy  happy  days  before  thy  death ; 
And,  after  many  lengthen'd  hours  of  grief. 
Die  neither  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  queen ! — 
Rivers, — and  Dorset, — you  were  standers  by, — 
And  so  wast  thou,  lord  Hastings, — when  my  son 
Was  stabb'd  with  bloody  daggers;  God,  I  pray 

him, 
That  none  of  you  may  live  your  natural  age. 
But  by  some  unlook'd  accident  cut  off! 

Glo.  Have  done  thy  charm,  thou  hateful  wither'd 
hag. 

Q.  Mar.  And  leave  out  thee  ?  stay,  dog,  for 
thou  shalt  hear  me. 
I<  heaven  have  any  grievous  plague  in  store. 
Exceeding  those  that  I  can  wish  upon  thee, 
0,  let  them  keep  it,  till  thy  sins  be  ripe, 
And  then  hurl  down  their  indignation 
On  <hee,  the  troubler  of  the  poor  world's  peace  ! 
The  worm  of  conscience  still  be-gnaw  thy  soul ! 
Thy  friends  suspect  for  traitors  while  thou  liv'st, 
And  take  deep  traitors  for  thy  dearest  friends  ! 
No  sleep  close  up  that  deadly  eye  of  thine. 
Unless  it  be  while  some  tormenting  dream 
Artrights  thee  with  a  hell  of  ugly  devils  ! 
Thou  elvish-mark'd,  abortive,  rooting  hog !'' 
Thou  that  wast  seal'd  in  thy  nativity 
The  slave  of  nature,  and  the  son  of  hell  1 
Thou  slander  of  thy  mother's  heavy  womb  ! 
Thou  loathed  issue  of  thy  father's  loins  ! 
Thou  rag  of  honour  !  thou  detested 

Glo.  Margaret. 

Q.  Mar.  Richard ! 

Glo.  Ha  ? 

Q.  Mar.  I  call  thee  not. 

Glo.  I  cry  thee  mercy  then  ;  for  I  did  think. 
That  thou  hadst  call'd  me  all  these  bitter  names. 
•  Q.  Mar.  Why,  so  I  did ;  but  look'd  for  no  re- 

p'y- 

0,  let  me  make  the  period  to  my  curse. 

Glo.  'T  is  done  by  me  ;  and  ends  in — Margaret. 
Qi.  Eliz.  Thus  have  you  breath'd  your   curse 

against  yourself 
Q.  Mar.  Poor  painted  queen,  vain  liourish  of 
my  fortune ! 


Why  strew'st  thou  sugar  on  that  bottle-spider, 
Whose  deadly  web  ensnareth  thee  about  ? 
Fool,  fool !  thou  whet'st  a  knife  to  kill  thyself. 
The  day  will  come,  that  thou  shalt  wish  for  me 
To  help  thee  curse  this  pois'nous   hunch-back'd 
toad. 
Hast.  False-boding   woman,    end    thy    frantic 
curse ; 
Lest,  to  thy  harm,  thou  move  our  patience. 

Q.  Mar.  Foul  shame  upon  you !  you  have  all 

mov'd  mine. 
Riv.  Were  you  well  serv'd,  you  would  be  taught 

your  duty. 
Q.  Mar.  To  serve  me  well,  you  all  should  do 
me  duty, 
Teach  me  to  be  your  queen,  and  you  my  subjects  : 
0,  serve  me  well,  and  teach  yourselves  that  duty. 
Dor.  Dispute  not  with  her,  she  is  lunatic. 
Q.  Mar.  Peace,  master  marquis,  you  are  mala- 
pert : 
Your  fire-new  stamp  of  honour  is  scarce  current: 
0,  that  your  young  nobility  could  judge. 
What  't  were  to  lose  it,  and  be  miserable  1 
They  that  stand  high,  have  many  blasts  to  shake 

them  ; 
And,  if  they  fall,  they  dash  themselves  to  pieces. 
Glo.  Good  counsel,  marry ; — learn  it,  learn  it, 

marquis. 
Dor.  It  touches  you,  my  lord,  as  much  as  me. 
Glo.  Ay,  and  much  more :  But  I  was  bon  so 
high. 
Our  aerie  buildeth  in  the  cedar's  top. 
And  dallies  with  the  wind,  and  scorns  the  sun. 
Q.  Mar.  And  turns  the  sun  to  shade  5 — alas^ 
alas ! — 
Witness  my  son,  now  in  the  shade  of  death  ; 
Whose  bright  out-shining  beams  thy  cloudy  wrath 
Hath  in  eternal  darkness  folded  up. 
Your  aerie  buildeth  in  our  aerie's  nest : — 
0  God,  that  see'st  it,  do  not  suffer  it ; 
As  it  was  won  with  blood,  lost  be  it  so  ! 

Buck.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame,  if  not  for  charity. 
Q.  Mar.  Urge  neither  charity  nor   shame  to 
me ; 
Uncharitably  with  me  have  you  dealt. 
And  shamefully  by  you  my  hopes  are  butcher'd. 
My  charity  is  outrage,  life  my  shame, — 
And  in  my  shame  still  live  my  sorrow's  ragfe ! 
Buck.  Have  done,  have  done. 
Q.  Mar.  O  princely  Buckingham,  I  kiss  thy 
hand, 
In  sign  of  league  and  amity  with  thee : 

1009 


ACT    1. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


eCENB    IV. 


Now  fair  befal  thee,  and  thy  noble  house  ! 
Thy  garments  are  not  spotted  with  our  blood, 
Nor  thou  within  the  compass  of  my  curse. 

Buck.  Nor  no  one  here ;  for  curses  never  pass 
llie  lips  of  those  that  breathe  them  in  the  air. 

Q.  Mar.  I  '11  not  believe  but  they  ascend  the 
sky, 
And  there  awake  God's  gentle-sleeping  peace. 

0  Buckingham,  beware  of  yonder  dog; 

Look,  when  he   fawns,    he   bites:   and,  when   he 

bites, 
His  venom  tooth  will  rankle  to  the  death  : 
Have  not  to  do  with  him,  beware  of  him  ; 
Sin,  death,  and  hell,  have  set  their  marks  on  him  ; 
And  all  their  ministers  attend  on  him. 

Qlo.  What  doth  she  say,  my  lord  of  Bucking- 
ham ? 

Buck.  Nothing  that  I  respect,  my  gracious  lord. 

Q.  Mar.  What,   dost   thou    scorn  me   for  my 
gentle  counsel  ? 
And  sooth  the  devil  that  I  warn  thee  from  ? 
0,  but  remember  this  another  day. 
When  he  shall  split  thy  very  heart  with  sorrow; 
And  say,  poor  Margaret  was  a  prophetess. — 
Live  each  of  you  the  subjects  to  his  hate. 
And  he  to  yours,  and  all  of  you  to  God's  !      \Exit. 

Hast.  My  hair  doth  stand  on  end  to  hear  her 
curses. 

Riv.  And  so  doth  mine  ;  I  muse,  why  she  's  at 
liberty. 

Olo.  I  cannot  blame  her,  by  God's  holy  moth'jr ; 
She  hath  had  too  much  wrong,  and  I  repent 
My  part  thereof,  that  I  have  done  to  her. 

Q.  JEliz.  I  never  did  her  any,  to  my  knowledge. 

Glo.  Yet  you  have  all  the  vantage  of  her  wrong. 

1  was  too  hot  to  do  some  body  good. 
That  is  too  cold  in  thinkingof  it  now. 
Marry,  as  for  Clarence,  he  is  well  repaid  ; 
Ho  is  frank'd  up  to  fatting  for  his  pains  ; — 
God  pardon  them  that  are  the  cause  thereof! 

Hiv.  A  virtuous  and  a  christian-like  conclusion, 
To  pray  for  them  that  have  done  scath  to  us. 

Glo.  So  do  I  ever,  being  well  advis'd ; — 
Forbad  I  curs'd  now,  I  had  curs'd  myself.    \ Aside. 

llJnter  Catesby. 

Cates.  Madam,  his  majesty  doth  call  for  you, — 
And  for  your  grace, — and  you,  my  noble  lords. 
Q.  Eliz.  Catesby,  I  come : — Lords,  will  you  go 

with  me  ? 
Riv.  Madam,  we  wmU  attena  upon  your  grace. 
\Eoxunt  all  but  Glo. 
1010 


Glo.  I  do  the  wrong,  and  first  begin  to  brawl. 
The  secret  mischiefs  that  I  set  abroach, 
I  lay  unto  the  grievous  charge  of  others. 
Clarence, — whom   I,   indeed,  have  laid  in  dark- 
ness,— 
I  do  beweep  to  many  simple  gulls ; 
Namely,  to  Stanley,  Hastings,  Buckingham  ; 
And  tell  them — 't  is  the  queen  and  her  allies, 
That  stir  the  king  against  the  duke  my  brother. 
Now  they  believe  it ;  and  withal  whet  me 
Ti>  be  reveng'd  on  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey : 
But  then  I  sigh,  and,  with  a  piece  of  scripture, 
Tell  them — that  God  bids  us  do  good  for  evil : 
And  thus  I  clothe  my  naked  villany 
With  old  odd  ends,  stol'n  forth  of  holy  writ ; 
And  s(;em  a  saint,  when  most  I  play  the  devil. 

Enter  Two  Murderers. 

But  soft,  here  come  my  executioners. — 
How  now,  my  hardy,  stout  resolved  mates  ? 
Are  you  now  going  to  despatch  this  thing  ? 

Ist  Murd.  We  are,  my  lord  ;  and  come  to  have 
the  warrant. 
That  we  may  be  admitted  where  he  is. 

Glo.  Well  thought  upon,  I  have  it  here  aboui 
me  :  [^Gives  the  Warrant. 

When  you  have  done,  repair  to  Crosby-place. 
But,  sirs,  be  sudden  in  the  execution, 
Withal  obdurate,  do  not  hear  him  plead  ; 
For  Clarence  is  well  spoken,  and,  perhaps, 
May  move  your  hearts  to  pity,  if  you  mark  him. 

\st  Murd.  Tut,  tut,  my  lord,  we  will  not  stand 
to  prate, 
Talkers  are  no  good  doers ;  be  assur'd. 
We  go  to  use  our  hands,  and  not  our  tongues. 

Glo.  Your  eyes  drop  mill-stones,  when  fools'  eyes 
drop  tears : 
I  like  you,  lads  ; — about  your  bu.-viufcss  straight ; 
Go,  go,  despatch. 

\st  Murd.       We  will,  my  noble  lord.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  \Y.—The  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Tow.-.r. 

Enter  Clarence  and  Brakenburt. 

Brak.   Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavilj^o 
day? 

Clar.  O,  I  have  pass'd  a  miserable  nignt, 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights. 
That,  as  I  am  a  chris'.ian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  't  were  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time. 


ACT    I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


soENB  rv. 


Brak.  What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?  I  pray 

you,  tell  me. 
Clar.  Methought,  that  I  had  broken  from  the 
Tower, 
And  was  embark'd  to  cross  to  Burgundy ; 
And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster : 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches ;  thence  we  look'd  toward  Eng- 
land, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster 
That  had  befall'n  us.     As  we  pac'd  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought,  that  Gloster  stumbled  ;  and,  in  falling, 
Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  over  board, 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

0  Lord  !  methought,  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears  ! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes ! 
Methought,  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks ; 

A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnaw'd  upon  ; 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalued,  jewels, 

All  scatter'd  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea; 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  sculls  ;  and,  in  those  holes 

Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept 

(As  't  were  in  scorn  of  eyes,)  reflecting  gems, 

That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 

And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scatter'd  by. 

Brak.    Had   you   such   leisure  in  the  time   of 
death, 
To  gaze  upon  these  secrets  of  the  deep  ? 

Clar.  Methought,  I  had  :  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ghost :  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  seek  the  empty,  vast,  and  wand'ring  air  ; 
l>ut  smother'd  it  within  my  panting  bulk. 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.  Awak'd  you  not  with  this  sore  agony  ? 

Clar.    O,  no,  my  dream  was  lengthen'd   after 
life; 
O,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul  ! 

1  pass'd,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood, 
With  that  grim  ferryman'*  which  poets  write  of, 

iUnto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul. 
Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick  ; 
Who  cry'd  aloud, — "  What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence?" 
And  so  he  vanish'd  :  Then  came  wand'ring  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood ;  and  he  shriek'd  out  aloud, — 


"  Clarence  is  come, — false,  fleeting,  perjut'd  Clar- 
ence,— 
That  stabb'd  me  in  the  field  by  Tewkesbury ; — 
Seize  on  him,  furies,  take  him  to  your  torments  1 — " 
With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environ'd  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 
I  trembling  wak'd,  and,  for  a  season  after, 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 

Brak.    No  marvel,  lord,  though   it  aff"righted 
you: 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.    O    Brakenbury,    I    have    done    these 
things, — 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul, — 
For  Edward's  sake ;    and,  see,  how  he  requites 
me  ! — 

0  God !  if  my  deep  prayers  cannot  appease  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  be  aveng'd  on  my  misdeeds, 

Yet  execute  thy  wrath  on  me  alone : 
0,  spare   my  guiltless   wife,  and   ray  poor  chil- 
dren ! — 

1  pray  thee,  gentle  keeper,  stay  by  me; 
My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 

Brak.  I  will,  my  lord  ;  God  give  your  grace 

good  rest ! — 

[Clar.  reposes  himself  on  a  Chair. 
Sorrow  breaks  sesisons,  and  reposing  hours, 
Makes   the   night   morning,    and   the   noon-tide 

night. 
Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories. 
An  outward  honour  for  an  inward  toil; 
And,  for  unfelt  imaginations, 
They  often  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares : 
So  that,  between  their  titles,  and  low  name. 
There  's  nothing  differs  but  the  outward  fame. 

Enter  the  Two  Murderers. 

\st  Murd.  Ho  !  who  's  here  ? 

Brak.  What  would'st  thou,  fellow  ?  and  liow 

cam'st  thou  hither  ? 
\st  Murd.  I  would  speak  with  Clarence,  and  I 
came  hither  on  my  legs. 
Brak.  What,  so  brief  ? 

2nd  Murd.  0,  sir,  't  is  better  to  b«  brief  than 
tedious  : — 
Let  him  see  our  commission ;  talk  no  more. 

\^A  Paper  is  delivered  to  Brak.,  who  reads  it 
Brak.  I  am,  in  this,  commanded  to  deliver 
The  noble  duke  of  Clarence  to  your  hands : — • 
I  will  not  reason  what  is  meant  hereby, 

1011 


I 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCJSNE    IV. 


Because  I  will  be  guiltless  of  the  meaning. 
Here  are  the  keys ; — there  sits  the  duke  asleep  : 
I  '11  to  the  king ;  and  signify  to  him, 
That  thus  I  have  resign'd  to  you  my  charge. 

1st  Murd.  You  may,  sir  :  't  is  a  point  of  wisdom ; 
Fare  you  well.  [^xit  Brak. 

2nd  Murd.  What,  shall  we  stab  him  as  he 
sleeps  ? 

\sl  Murd.  No  ;  he  '11  say,  't  was  done  cowardly, 
when  he  wakes. 

2nd  Murd.  When  he  wakes !  why,  fool,  he  shall 
never  wake  until  the  great  judgment  day. 

\st  Murd.  Why,  then  he  '11  say,  we  stabb'd  him 
sleeping. 

2nd  Murd.  The  urging  of  that  word,  judg- 
ment, hath  bred  a  kind  of  remorse  in  me. 

\si  Murd.  What  ?  art  thou  afraid  ? 

2nd  Murd.  Not  to  kill  him,  having  a  warrant 
for  it ;  but  to  be  daran'd  for  killing  him,  from  the 
which  no  warrant  can  defend  me. 

\st  Murd.  I  thought,  thou  had'st  been  resolute. 

2nd  Murd.  So  I  am,  to  let  him  live. 

\st  Murd.  I  '11  back  to  the  duke  of  Gloster,  and 
tell  him  so. 

2nd  Murd.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  stay  a  little  :  I 
hope,  this  holy  humour  of  mine  will  change  ;  it 
was  wont  to  hold  me  but  while  one  would  tell 
twenty. 

\st  Murd.  How  dost  thou  feel  thyself  now  ? 

2nd  Murd.  'Faith,  some  certain  dregs  of  con- 
science are  yet  within  me. 

\st  Murd.  Remember  our  reward,  when  the 
deed  's  done. 

2nd  Murd.  Come,  he  dies ;  I  had  forgot  Che 
reward. 

\st  Murd.  Where  's  thy  conscience  now  ? 

2nd  Murd.  In  the  duke  of  Gloster's  purse. 

\st  Murd.  So,  when  he  opens  his  purse  to  give 
us  our  reward,  thy  conscience  flies  out. 

2nd  Murd.  'T  is  no  matter  ;  let  it  go  ;  there  's 
few,  or  none,  will  entertain  it. 

\st  Murd.  What,  if  it  come  to  thee  again  ? 

2nd  Murd.  I  '11  not  meddle  with  it,  it  is  a  dan- 
gerous thing,  it  makes  a  man  a  coward  ;  a  man 
cannot  steal,  but  it  accuseth  him  ;  a  man  cannot 
syvear,  but  it  checks  him  ;  a  man  cannot  lie  with 
his  neighbour's  wife,  but  it  detects  him  :  'T  is  a 
blushing  shame-faced  spirit,  that  mutinies  in  a 
man's  bosom  ;  it  filla  one  full  of  obstacles  :  it 
made  me  once  restore  a  purse  of  gold,  that  by 
chance  I  found  ;  it  beggars  any  man  that  keeps 
it ;  it  is  turned  out  of  all  towns  and  cities  for  a 

1012 


dangerous  thing;  and  every  man,  that  means  t- 
live  well,  endeavours  to  trust  to  himself,  and  live 
without  it. 

\st  Murd.  'Zounds,  it  is  even  now  at  my  elbow, 
persuading  me  not  to  kill  the  duke. 

2nd  Murd.  Take  the  devil  in  thy  mind,  and 
beheve  him  not :  he  would  insinuate  with  thee, 
but  to  make  thee  sigh. 

\st  Murd.  I  am  strong-fram'd,  he  cannot  pre- 
vail with  me. 

2nd  Murd.  Spoke  like  a  tall  fellow,  that  re- 
spects his  reputation.  Come,  shall  we  fall  to 
work  ? 

\st  Murd.  Take  him  over  the  costard'^  with 
the  hilts  of  thy  sword,  and  then  throw  him  into 
the  malmsey-butt,  in  the  next  room. 

2nd  Murd.  O  excellent  device !  and  make  a 
sop  of  him. 

\st  Murd.  Soft !  he  wakes. 

2nd  Murd.  Strike. 

\st  Murd.  No,  we  '11  reason  with  bim. 

Clar.   Where  art  thou,  keeper  ?  give  me  a  cup 
of  wine. 

\st  Murd.   You  shall  have  win**  enough,  my 
lord,  anon. 

Clar.  In  God's  name,  what  art  thou  « 

Ist  Murd.  A  man,  as  you  are. 

Clar.  But  not,  as  I  am,  royal. 

\st  Murd.  Nor  you,  as  we  are,  loyal. 

Clar.  Thy  voice  is  thunder,  but  thy  looks  are 
humble. 

Ist  Murd.  My  voice  is  now  the  king's,  my  looks 
mine  own. 

Clar.  How  darkly,  and  how  deadly  dost  thou 
speak  ! 
Your  eyes  do  menace  me :  why  look  you  pale  ? 
Who  sent  you  hither  ?  Wherefore  do  you  come  ? 

Both  Murd.  To,  to,  to, 

Clar.  To  murder  me  ? 

Bath  Murd.  Ay,  ay. 

Clar.  You  scarcely  have  the  hearts  to  tell  me  so, 
And  therefore  cannot  have  the  hearts  to  do  it. 
Wherein,  my  friends,  have  I  offended  you  ? 

\st  Murd.  Offended  us  you  have  not,  but  the 
king. 

Clar.  I  shall  be  reconcil'd  to  hira  again. 

2nd  Murd.  Never,  my  lord ;  therefore  prepare 
to  die. 

Clar.  Are  you  call'd  forth  from  out  a  world  of 
men. 
To  slay  the  innocent  ?  What  is  my  offence  ? 
Where  is  the  ev'dence  that  doth  accuse  me  % 


ACT   I. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


What  lawful  quest  have  given  their  verdict  up 
Unto  the  frowning  judge  ?  or  who  pronounc'd 
The  bitter  sentence  of  poor  Clarence'  death  ? 
Before  I  be  convict  by  course  of  law,^" 
To  threaten  me  with  death  is  most  unlawful. 
I  charge  you,  as  you  hope  for  any  goodness, 
By  Christ's  dear  blood,  shed  for  our  grievous  sins, 
That  you  depart,  and  lay  no  hands  on  me; 
The  deed  you  undertake  is  damnable. 

1st  Murd.  What  we  will  do,  we  do  upon  com- 
mand. 

^ixd  Murd.  And  he,  that  hath  commanded,  is 
our  king. 

Clar.  Erroneous  vassal !  the  great  King  of  kings 
Hath  in  the  table  of  his  law  commanded, 
That  thou  shalt  do  no  murder :  Wilt  thou  then 
Spurn  at  his  edict,  and  fulfil  a  man's  ? 
Take  heed  ;  for  he  holds  vengeance  in  his  hand, 
To  hurl  upon  their  heads  that  break  his  law. 

Ind  Murd.  And  that  same  vengeance  doth  he 
hurl  on  thee. 
For  false  forswearing,  and  for  murder  too  : 
Thou  didst  receive  the  sacrament,  to  fight 
In  quarrel  of  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

\st  Murd.  And,  like  a  traitor  to  the  name  of 
God, 
Didst  break  that  vow  ;  and,  with  thy  treacherous 

blade, 
Unrip'dst  the  bowels  of  thy  sovereign's  son. 

'ind  Murd.  Whom  thou  wast  sworn  to  cherish 
and  defend. 

ls<  Murd.  How  canst  thou  urge  God's  dread- 
ful law  to  us, 
When  thou  hast  broke  it  in  such  dear  degree  ? 

Clar.  Alas !  for  whose  sake  did  I  that  ill  deed? 
For  Edward,  for  my  brother,  for  his  sake  : 
He  sends  you  not  to  murder  me  for  this ; 
For  in  that  sin  he  is  as  deep  as  I. 
If  God  will  be  avenged  for  the  deed, 
O,  know  you,  that  he  doth  it  publicly  ; 
Take  not  the  quarrel  from  his  powerful  arm  ; 
He  needs  no  indirect  nor  lawless  course. 
To  cut  off  those  that  have  offended  him. 

\st  Murd.  Who  made  thee  then  a  bloody  min- 
ister, 
When  gallant-springing,  brave  Plantagenet, 
That  princely  novice,  was  struck  dead  by  thee? 

Clar.  My  brother's   love,  the    devil,   and    my 
mge. 

\st  Murd.  Thy  brother's   love,  our  duty,  and 
thy  fault, 
Provoko  us  hither  now  to  slaujjhter  thee. 


Clar.    If  j'ou   do   love  my  brother,  hate   not 
me; 
I  am  his  brother,  and  I  love  him  well. 
If  you  are  hir'd  for  meed,  go  back  again, 
And  I  will  send  you  to  my  brother  Gloster ; 
Who  shall  reward  you  better  for  my  life. 
Than  Edward  will  for  tidings  of  my  death. 

Ind  Murd.    You   are    deceiv'd,   your   brothel 
Gloster  hates  you. 

Clar.  O,  no  ;  he  loves  me,  and  he  holds  me  dear  : 
Go  you  to  him  from  me. 

Both  Murd.  Ay,  so  we  will. 

Clar.  Tell  him,  when   that  our  princely  father 
York 
Bless'd  his  three  sons  with  his  victorious  arm, 
And  charg'd  us  from  his  soul  to  love  each  other, 
He  little  thought  of  this  divided  friendship : 
Bid  Gloster  think  on  this,  and  he  will  weep. 

\st  Murd.  Ay,  mill-stones  ;  as  he  lesson'd  us  to 
weep. 

Clar.  O,  do  not  slander  him,  for  he  is  kind. 

\&t  Murd.  Right,  as  snow  in  harvest. — Come, 
you  deceive  yourself; 
'T  is  he  that  sends  us  to  destroy  you  here. 

Clar.  It  cannot  be  ;  for  he  bewept  my  fortune, 
And  hugg'd  me  in  his  arms,  and  swore,  with  sobs, 
That  he  would  labour  ray  delivery. 

\st  Murd.  Why,  so  he  doth,  when  he  delivers 
you 
From  this  earth's  thraldom  to  the  joys  of  heaven, 

2ncZ  Murd.  Make  peace  with  God,  for  you  must 
die,  my  lord. 

Clar.  Hast  thou  that  holy  feeling  in  thy  soul. 
To  counsel  me  to  make  my  peace  with  God, 
And  art  thou  yet  to  thy  own  soul  so  blind. 
That  thou  wilt  war  with  God  by  murdering  me? — 
Ah,  sirs,  consider,  he,  that  set  you  on 
To  do  this  deed,  will  hate  you  for  the  deed. 

Ind  Murd.  What  shall  we  do  ? 

Clar.  Relent,  and  save  your  souls 

\st  Murd.  Relent!  't  is  cowardly,  and  womanish, 

Clar.  Not  to  relent,  is  beastly, savage,  devilish. — 
Which  of  you,  if  you  were  a  prince's  son, 
Being  pent  from  liberty,  as  I  am  now, — 
If  two  such  murderers  as  yourselves  came  to  you,— 
Would  not  entreat  for  life  ? — 
My  friend,  I  spy  some  pity  in  thy  looks ; 
O,  if  thine  eye  be  not  a  flatterer, 
Come  thou  on  my  side,  and  entreat  for  me. 
As  you  would  beg,  were  you  in  my  distress. 
A  begging  prince  what  beggar  pities  not? 

2nd  Murd.  Look  behind  }  ou,  my  lord. 

1018 


ACT    II. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


1st  Murd.  Take  that,  and  that ;  if  all  this  will 
not  do,  [^Stahs  him. 

I  '11  drown  you  in  the  malmsey-butt  within. 

[Exit.,  with  the  Body. 
2nd  Murd.  A  bloody  deed,  and  desperately  de- 
spatch'd  ! 
How  fain,  like  Pilate,  would  I  wash  my  hands 
Of  this  most  grievous  guilty  murder  done  ! 

Re-enter  first  Murderer. 

\st  Murd.  How  now  ?  what  mean'st  thou,  that 
thou  help'st  me  not  ? 


By  heaven,  the  duke  shall  know  how  slack  you 

have  been. 
2nd  Murd.  I  would  he  knew,  that  I  had  sav'd 

his  brother ! 
Take  thou  the  fee,  and  tell  him  what  I  say ; 
For  I  repent  me  that  the  duke  is  slain.  [Exit, 

\st  Murd.  So  do  not  I;  go,  coward,  as  thou 

art. — 
Well,  I  '11  go  hide  the  body  in  some  hole. 
Till  that  the  duke  give  order  for  his  burial  : 
And  when  I  have  my  meed,  I  will  away ; 
For  this  will  out,  and  then  I  must  not  stay.  [Exit 


ACT    II, 


SCENE  I. — Tlie  Same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  King  Edward,  {led  in  sick,)  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, Dorset,  Rivers,  Hastings,  Bucking- 
ham, Grey,  and  Others. 

K.  Edw.  Why,  so  : — now  have  I  done  a  good 
day's  work : — 
You,  peers,  continue  this  united  league: 
I  every  day  expect  an  embassage 
From  my  Redeemer  to  redeem  me  lience ; 
And  more  in  peace  my  soul  shall  part  to  heaven, 
Since  I  have  made  my  friends  at  peace  on  earth. 
Rivers,  and  Hastings,  take  each  other's  hand  ; 
Dissemble  not  your  hatred,  swear  your  love. 
Riv.  By  heaven,  my  soul  is  purg'd  from  grudg- 
ing hate ; 
And  with  my  hand  I  seal  my  true  heart's  love. 
Hast.  So  thrive  I,  as  I  truly  swear  the  like  I 
K.  Edw.  Take  heed,  you  dally  not  before  your 
king ; 
Lest  he,  that  is  the  supreme  King  of  kings, 
Confound  your  hidden  falsehood,  and  award 
Either  of  you  to  be  the  other's  end. 

HoM.  So  prosper  I,  as  I  swear  perfect  love  ! 
Riv.  And  I,  as  I  love  Hastings  with  my  heart ! 
K.  Edw.  Madam,  yourself  are  not  exempt  in 
this, — 
Nor  your  son  Dorset, — Buckingham,  nor  you  ; — 
You  have  been  factious  one  against  the  other. 
Wife,  love  lord  Hastings,  let  liim  kiss  your  hand ; 
And  what  you  do,  do  it  unfeignedly. 

Q.  Eliz.  There,  Hastings; — I  will  never  more 
remember 
1014 


Our  former  hatred.  So  thrive  I,  and  mine ! 

IC.  Edw.  Doi-set,  embrace  him, — Hastings,  love 

lord  marquis. 
Dor.  This  interchange  of  love,  I  here  protest, 
Upon  my  part  shall  be  inviolable. 

Hast.  And  so  swear  I.  [Embraces  Dor. 

AT.  Edw.  Now,  princely  Buckingham,  seal  thou 
this  league 
With  thy  embracements  to  my  wife's  allies. 
And  make  me  happy  in  your  unity. 

Buck.  Whenever  Buckingham  doth  turn  his  bate 
Upon  your  grace,  [To  the  Queen.]  but  with  all 

duteous  love 
Doth  cherish  you,  and  yours,  God  punish  me 
With  hate  in  those  where  I  expect  most  love ! 
When  I  have  most  need  to  employ  a  friend, 
And  most  assured  that  he  is  a  friend, 
Deep,  hollow,  treacherous,  and  full  of  guile, 
Be  he  unto  me !  this  do  I  beg  of  heaven. 
When  I  am  cold  in  love,  to  you,  or  yours. 

[Embracing  Riv.,  <fcc 
IT.  Edw.  A  pleasing  cordial,  princely  Bucking 
ham, 
Is  this  thy  vow  unto  my  sickly  heart. 
There  wanteth  now  our  brother  Gloster  here, 
To  make  the  blessed  period  of  this  peace. 

Buck.  And,  in  good  time,  here  comes  the  noble 
duke. 

Enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Good-morrow  to  my  sovereign  king,  and 
queen  ; 
And,  princely  peers,  a  happy  time  of  day  1 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THUiD. 


bCBNS    I. 


K.  Edw.  Happy,  indee;!,  as  we  have  spent  tlie 
day  :— 
Brother,  we  have  done  deeds  of  charity ; 
Made  peace  of  enmity,  fair  love  of  hate, 
Between  these  swelling  wrong-incensed  peers, 

Qlo.    A   blessed    labour,    my   most   sovereign 
Jiege. — 
Among  this  princely  heap,  if  any  here. 
By  false  intelligence,  or  wrong  surmise, 
Hold  me  a  foe ; 

If  I  unwittingly,  or  in  my  rage, 
Have  aught  committed  that  is  hardly  borne 
By  any  in  this  presence,  I  desire 
To  reconcile  me  to  his  friendly  peace : 
'T  is  death  to  me,  to  be  at  enmity ; 
I  hate  it,  and  desire  all  good  men's  love. — 
First,  madam,  I  entreat  true  peace  of  you. 
Which  I  wilUpurchase  with  my  duteous  service  ; — 
Of  you,  my  noble  cousin  Buckingham, 
[f  ever  any  grudge  were  lodg'd  between  us ; 
Of  you.  lord  Rivers, — and,  lord  Grey,  of  you, — 
That  all  without  desert  have  frown'd  on  me ; — 
Dukes,  earls,  lords,  gentlemen  ;  indeed,  of  all. 
I  do  not  know  that  Englishman  alive. 
With  whom  my  soul  is  any  jot  at  odds, 
More  than  the  infant  that  is  born  to-night ; 
I  thank  my  God  for  my  humility. 

Q,.  Eliz.  A  holy-day  shall  this  be  kept  here- 
after : — 
I  would  to  God,  all  strifes  were  well  compounded. — 
My  sovereign  lord,  I  do  beseech  your  highness 
To  take  our  brother  Clarence  to  your  grace. 

Olo.  Why,  madam,  have  I  ofter'd  love  for  this, 
To  be  so  flouted  in  this  royal  presence  ? 
Who  knows  not,  that  the  gentle  duke  is  dead  ? 

\They  all  start. 
You  do  him  injury,  to  scorn  his  corse. 

K.  Edw.    Who  knows  not,  he  is  dead  !  who 
knows  he  is  ? 

Q.  Eliz.    All-seeing  heaven,  what  a  world   is 
this! 

Buck.    Look   I  so   pale,  lord  Dorset,  as  the 
rest? 

Dor.  Ky,  my  good  lord ;  and  no  man  in  the 
presence. 
But  his  red  colour  hath  forsook  his  cheeks. 

K.  Edw,  Is  Clarence  dead  ?  the  order  was  re- 
vers'd. 

Qlo.  But  he,  poor  man,   by  your  first  order 
died, 
And  that  a  winged  Mercury  did  bear  ; 
Some  tardy  cripple  bore  the  countermand. 


That  came  too  lag  to  see  him  buried : — 
God  grant,  that  some,  less  noble,  and  less  loyal, 
Nearer  in  bloody  thoughts,  and  not  in  blood. 
Deserve  not  worse  than  wretched  Claren'je  did, 
And  yet  go  current  from  suspicion  ! 

Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.   A  boon,  my  sovereign,  for  my  service 

done  1 
K.  Edw.  I  pr'ythee,  peace ;  my  soul  is  full  o( 

sorrow. 
Stan.  I  will  not  rise,  unless  your  highness  hear 

me. 
K.  Edw.  Then  say  at  once,  what  is  it  thou  re- 

quest'st. 
Stan.    The  forfeit,  sovereign,  of  my  servant's 

life  f 
Who  slew  to-day  a  riotous  gentleman 
Lately  attendant  on  the  duke  of  Norfolk. 

K.  Edio.  Have  I  a  tongue  to  doom  my  brother's 

death, 
And  shall  that  tongue  give  pardon  to  a  slave  ? 
My  brother  kill'd  no  man,  his  fi.iult  was  thought. 
And  yet  his  punishment  was  bitter  death. 
Who  sued  to  me  for  him  ?  who,  in  my  wrath, 
Kneel'd  at  my  feet,  and  bade  me  be  advis'd  ? 
Who  spoke  of  brotherhood  ?  who  spoke  of  love  ? 
Who  told  me,  how  the  poor  soul  did  forsake 
The  mighty  Warwick,  and  did  fight  for  me  ? 
Who  told  me,  in  the  field  at  Tewkesbury, 
When  Oxford  had  me  down,  he  rescu'd  me, 
And  said,  "  Dear  brother,  live,  and  be  a  king  ?" 
Who  told  me,  when  we  both  lay  in  the  field. 
Frozen  almost  to  death,  how  he  did  lap  me 
Even  in  his  garments  ;  and  did  give  himself. 
All  thin  and  naked,  to  the  numb-cold  night  ? 
All  this  from  my  remembrance  brutish  wrath 
Sinfully  pluck'd,  and  not  a  man  of  you 
Had  so  much  grace  to  put  it  in  my  mind. 
But,  when  your  carters,  or  your  waiting-vassals 
Have  done  a  drunken  slaughter,  and  defac'd 
The  precious  image  of  our  dear  Redeemer, 
You  straight  are  on  your  knees  for  pardon,  pap 

don  ; 
And  I,  unjustly  too,  must  grant  it  you : — 
But  for  my  brother,  not  a  man  would  speak, — 
Nor  I  (ungracious)  speak  unto  myself 
For  him,  poor  soul. — The  proudest  of  you  all 
Have  been  beholden  to  him  in  his  life ; 
Yet  none  of  you  would  once  plead  for  his  life. — 
O  God  !  I  fear,  thy  justice  will  take  hold 
On  me,  and  you,  and  mine,  and  yours,  for  this. — 

1016 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE   n. 


Come,  Hastings,  help  me  to  my  closet.     0, 
Poor  Clarence ! 

[Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Hast.,  Riv.,  Dor., 
and  Grev. 
Glo.    This  is  the  fruit   of  rashness  !— Mark'd 
you  not, 
iJow  that  the  guilty  kindred  of  the  queen 
Look'd  pale,  when  they  did  hear  of  Clarence' 
death  ? 

0  !  they  did  urge  it  still  unto  the  king  : 

God  will  revenge  it.     Come,  lords ;  will  you  go. 
To  comfort  Edward  with  our  company  ? 

Buck.  We  wait  upon  your  grace.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same. 

Enter  the  Duchess   of  York,^^  with  a  Son  and 
Daughter  o/"  Clarence. 

Son.  Good  grandam,  tell  us,  is  our  father  dead  ? 

Duch.  No,  boy. 

Daugh.  Why  do  you  weep  so  oft  ?  and  beat 
your  breast ; 
And  cry — "  O  Clarence,  my  unhappy  son  !" 

Son.  Why  do  you  look  on  us,  and  shake  your 
head, 
And  call  us — orphans,  wretches,  cast-aways, 
If  that  our  noble  father  be  alive  ? 

Duch.  My  pretty  cousins,  you  mistake  rae  both ; 

1  do  lament  the  sickness  of  the  king, 

As  loath  to  lose  him,  not  your  father's  death  ; 
It  were  lost  sorrow,  to  wail  one  that 's  lost. 

Son.  Then,  grandam,  you  conclude  that  he  is 
dead. 
The  king  my  uncle  is  to  blame  for  this  : 
God  will  revenge  it ;  whom  I  will  importune 
With  earnest  prayers  all  to  that  effect. 
Daugh.  And  so  will  I. 

Duch.    Peace,  children,  peace  !  the  king  doth 
love  you  well : 
Incapable  and  shallow  innocents, 
You  cannot  guess  who  caus'd  your  father's  death. 
Son.    Grandam,  we  can  :  for  my  good  uncle 
Gloster 
Told  me,  the  king,  provok'd  to  't  by  the  queen, 
Devis'd  impeachments  to  imprison  him  : 
And  when  my  uncle  told  me  so,  he  wept, 
And  pitied  me,  and  kindly  kiss'd  my  cheek ; 
Bade  me  rely  on  him,  as  on  my  father, 
And  he  would  love  me  dearly  as  his  child. 

Duch.  Ah,  that  deceit  should  steal  such  gentle 
shapes, 
And  with  a  virtuous  visor  hide  deep  vice  1 
1016 


He  is  my  son,  ay,  and  therein  my  shame. 
Yet  from  my  dugs  he  drew  not  this  deceit. 

Son.    Think    you    my   uncle    did    dissemble, 

grandam  ? 
Duch.  Ay,  boy. 

Son.  I  cannot  think  it.     Hark  1  what  noise  is 
this  ? 

Enter  Queen  Elizabeth,  distractedly ;  Rivers 
and  Dorset,  following  her. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah  !  who  shall  hinder  me  to  wail  and 
weep  ? 
To  chide  my  fortune,  and  torment  myself? 
I  '11  join  with  black  despair  against  my  soul, 
And  to  myself  become  an  enemy. 

Duch.  What  means  this  scene  of  rude  impa- 
tience ? 

Q.  Eliz.  To  make  an  act  of  tragic«violence : — 
Edward,  my  lord,  thy  son,  our  king,  is  dead. — 
Why  grow  the  branches,  when  the  root  is  gone  3 
Why    wither   not   the    leaves,    that    want   their 

sap  ? — 
If  you  will  live,  lament;  if  die,  be  brief; 
That  our  swift-winged  souls  may  catch  the  king's ; 
Or,  like  obedient  subjects,  follow  him 
To  his  new  kingdom  of  perpetual  rest. 

Duch.    Ah,  so   much   interest  have  I  in   thy 
sorrow, 
As  I  had  title  in  thy  noble  husband  ! 
I  have  bewept  a  worthy  husband's  death, 
And  liv'd  by  looking  on  his  images  : 
But  now,  two  mirrors  of  his  princely  semblance 
Are  crack'd  in  pieces  by  malignant  death  ; 
And  I  for  comfort  have  but  one  false  glass. 
That  grieves  me  when  I  see  my  shame  in  him. 
Thou  art  a  widow ;  yet  thou  art  a  mother, 
And  hast  the  comfort  of  thy  children  left  thee  : 
But  death   hath   snatch'd   my  husband  from  my 

arms. 
And  pluck'd  two  crutches  from  my  feeble  hands, 
Clarence,  and  Edward.     0  what  cause  have  I, 
(Thine  being  but  a  moiety  of  my  grief,) 
To  over-go  thy  plaints,  and  drown  thy  cries  ? 

Son.  Ah,  aunt !  you  wept  not  for  our  father's 
death ; 
How  can  we  aid  you  with  our  kindred  tears? 

Daugh.  Our  fatherless  distress  was  leftunmoan'd, 
Your  widow-dolour  likewise  be  unwept! 

Q.  Eliz.  Give  me  no  help  in  lamentation. 
I  am  not  barren  to  bring  forth  laments  : 
All  springs  reduce  their  currents  to  mine  eyes, 
That  I,  being  govern'd  by  the  wat'ry  moon. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


May  send  forth  plenteous  tears  to  drown  the  world  ! 
Ah,  for  my  husband,  for  my  dear  lord  Edward ! 

Cliil.   Ah,  for  our  father,  for  our  dear  lord  Cla- 
rence ! 

Duch.  Alas,  for  both,  both  mine,  Edward  and 
Clarence ! 

Q.  Eliz.  What  stay  had  I,  but  Edward  ?  and 
ke  's  gone. 

Chil.  What  stay  had  we,  but  Clarence  ?   and 
he  's  gone, 

Duch.  What  stays  had  I,  but  they  ?  and  they 
are  gone. 

Q.  Eliz.  Was  never  widow,  had  so  dear  a  loss. 

Chil.  Were  never  orphans,  had  so  dear  a  loss. 

Duch.  Was  never  mother  had  so  dear  a  loss. 
Alas  !  I  am  the  mother  of  these  griefs; 
Tlieir  woes  are  parcell'd,  mine  are  general. 
She  for  au^dward  weeps,  and  so  do  I ; 
I  for  a  Clarence  weep,  so  doth  not  she : 
These  babes  for  Clarence  weep,  and  so  do  I : 
I  for  an  Edward  weep,  so  do  not  they : — 
Alas !  you  three,  on  me,  threefold  distress'd. 
Pour  all  your  tears,  I  am  your  soitow's  nurse, 
And  I  will  pamper  it  with  lamentations. 

Dor.  Comfort,  dear  mother  ;  God  is  much  dis- 
pleas'd, 
That  you  take  with  unthankfulness  his  doing ; 
In  common  worldly  things, 'tis  call'd — ungrateful. 
With  dull  unwillingness  to  repay  a  debt. 
Which  with  a  bounteous  hand  was  kindly  lent ; 
Much  more  to  be  thus  opposite  with  heaven. 
For  it  requires  the  royal  debt  it  lent  you. 

Riv.  Madam,  bethink  you,  like  a  careful  mother. 
Of  the  young  prince,  your  son  :  send  straight  for 

him, 
Let  him  be  crown'd  ;  in  him  your  comfort  lives  : 
Drown  desperate  sorrow  in  dead  Edward's  grave, 
And  plant  your  joys  in  living  Edward's  throne. 

Enter  Gloster,  Buckingham,   Stanley,   Hast- 
ings, Ratcliffe,  and  Others. 

Glo.  Sister,  have  comfort :  all  of  us  have  cause 
To  wail  the  dimming  of  our  shining  star ; 
But  none  can  cure  their  harms  by  wailing  them. — 
Madam,  my  mother,  I  do  cry  you  mercy, 
I  did  not  see  your  grace : — Humbly  on  my  knee 
I  crave  your  blessing. 

Duch.  God  bless  thee ;  and  put  meekness  in  thy 
breast, 
Love,  charity,  obedience,  and  true  duty ! 

Glo.  Amen ;  and  make   me   die   a   good   old 
mau  } — 

12d 


That  is  the  butt-end  of  a  mother's  blessing;  \^Aside. 
I  marvel,  that  her  grace  did  leave  it  out. 

Buck.  You  cloudy  princes,  and  heart -sorrowing 
peers. 
That  bear  this  mutual  heavy  load  of  moan. 
Now  cheer  each  other  in  each  other's  love : 
Though  we  have  spent  our  harvest  of  this  king, 
We  are  to  reap  the  harvest  of  his  son. 
The  broken  rancour  of  your  high-swoln  hearts, 
But  lately  splinted,  knit,  and  join'd  together, 
Must  gently  be  preserv'd,  cherish'd,  and  kept : 
Me  seemeth  good,  that,  with  some  little  aain, 
Forthwith   from    Ludlow   the   young   prince    be 

fetch'd" 
Hither  to  London,  to  be  crown'd  our  king. 

JRiv.  Why  with  some  little  train,  my  lord  of 
Buckingham  ? 

Buck.  Marry,  my  lord,  lest,  by  a  multitude. 
The  new-heal'd  wound  of  malice  should  break  out ; 
Which  would  be  so  much  the  more  dangerous, 
By  how  much  the  estate  is  green,  and  yet  un- 

govern'd : 
Where  every  horse  bears  his  commanding  rein. 
And  may  direct  his  course  as  please  himself, 
As  well  the  fear  of  harm,  as  harm  apparent, 
In  my  opinion,  ought  to  be  prevented. 

Glo.  I  hope,  the  king  made  peace  with  all  of 
us ; 
And  the  compact  is  firm,  and  true,  in  me. 

Hiv.  And  so  in  me ;  and  so,  I  think,  in  all : 
Yet,  since  it  is  but  green,  it  should  be  put 
Tu  no  apparent  likelihood  of  breach. 
Which,  haply,  by  much  company  might  be  urg'd  : 
Therefore  I  say,  with  noble  Buckingham, 
That  it  is  meet  so  few  should  fetch  the  prince. 

ffast.  And  so  say  I. 

Glo.  Then  be  it  so ;  and  go  we  to  determine 
Who  they  shall  be  that  straight  shall  post  to  Lud- 
low. 
Madam, — and  you,  my  mother,  will  you  go 
To  give  your  censures  in  this  weighty  business  ? 
[^Exeunt  all  but  Buck,  and  Glo. 

Buck.  My  lord,  whoever  journeys  to  the  prince, 
For  God's  sake,  let  not  us  two  stay  at  home : 
For,  by  the  way,  I  '11  sort  occasion. 
As  index  to  the  story  we  late  talk'd  of, 
To  part  the  queen's  proud  kindred  from  the  pnnce. 

Glo,  My  other  self,  my  counsel's  consistory, 
My  oracle,  my  prophet! — My  dear  cousin, 
I,  as  a  child,  will  go  by  thy  direction. 
Towards  Ludlow  then,  for  we  '11  not  stay  behind. 

[Exeunt. 
1011 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    III-IV. 


SCENE  III.— The  Same.     A  Street. 

Enter  Two  Citizens,  meeting. 

\st   Cit.  Good   morrow,   neighbour:   Whither 

away  so  fast  ? 
2nd  Cit.  I  promise  you,  I  scarcely  know  myself: 
Hear  you  the  news  abroad  ? 

\st  Cit.  Yes  ;  the  king  's  dead. 

2nd  Cit.  Ill  news,  by'r  lady ;  seldom  comes  the 
better : 
I  fear,  I  fear,  't  will  prove  a  giddy  world. 

Enter  another  Citizen. 

3rc?  Cit.  Neighbours,  God  speed ! 
\st  Cit.  Give  you  good  morrow,  sir. 

Zrd  Cit.  Doth  the  news  hold  of  good  king  Ed- 
ward's death  ? 
2nd  Cit.  Ay,  sir,  it  is  too  true ;  God  help,  the 

while ! 
'6rd  Cit.  Then,  masters,  look  to  see  a  troublous 

world. 
\st  Cit.  No,  no ;  by  God's  good  grace,  his  son 

shall  reign. 
Zrd  Cit.  Woe  to  that  land,  that 's  governed  by 

a  child  1 
2nd  Cit.  In  him  there  is  a  hope  of  govern- 
ment ; 
That,  in  his  nonage,  council  under  him, 
And,  in  his  full  and  ripen'd  years,  himself. 
No  doubt,  shall  then,  and  till  then,  govern  well. 
\st  Cit.  So  stood  the   state,  when  Henry  the 
Sixth 
Was  crown'd  in  Paris  but  at  nine  months  old. 
^rd  Cit.  Stood  the  state  so  ?  no,  no,  good  friends, 
God  wot; 
For  then  this  land  was  famously  enrich'd 
With  politic  grave  counsel ;  then  the  king 
Had  virtuous  uncles  to  protect  his  grace. 

\st  Cit.  Why,  so  hath  this,  both  by  his  father 

and  mother. 
Zrd  Cit.  Better  it  were,  they  all  came  by  his 
father ; 
Or,  by  his  father,  there  were  none  at  all : 
For  emulation  now,  who  shall  be  nearest. 
Will  touch  us  all  too  near,  if  God  prevent  not. 
0,  full  of  danger  is  the  duke  of  Gloster ; 
And  the  queen's  sons,  and  brothers,  haught  and 

proud  ; 
And  were  they  to  be  rul'd,  and  not  to  rule, 
This  sickly  land  might  solace  as  before. 

\st  Cit.  Come,  come,  we  fear  the  worst ;  all  will 
be  well. 
101S 


Brd  Cit.  When  clouds  are  seen,  wise  men  pu 
on  their  cloaks ; 
When  great  leaves  fall,  then  winter  is  at  hand  ; 
When  the  sun  sets,  who  doth  not  look  for  nigh 
Untimely  storms  make  men  expect  a  dearth  : 
All  may  be  well ;  but,  if  God  sort  it  so, 
'T  is  more  than  we  deserve,  or  I  expect. 

2nd  Cit.  Truly,  the  hearts  of  men  are  full  of  feai  l 
You  cannot  reason  almost  with  a  man 
That  looks  not  heavily,  and  full  of  dread. 

3rc?  Cit.  Before  the  days  of  change,  still  is  it  so 
By  a  divine  instinct,  men's  minds  mistrust 
Ensuing  danger ;  as,  by  proof,  we  see 
The  water  swell  before  a  boist'rous  storm. 
But  leave  it  all  to  God.     Whither  away  ? 

2nd  Cit.  Marry,  we  were  sent  for  to  the  justices 

^rd  Cit.  And  so  was  I ;  I  '11  bear  you  company, 

.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — The  Same.   A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  Archbishop  of  York,  the  young  Dukk 
OF  York,  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  Duchess 
of  York. 

Arch.  Last  night,  I  heard,  they  lay  at  Stony- 
Stratford  ; 
And  at  Northampton  they  do  rest  to-night  ;^* 
To-morrow,  or  next  day,  they  will  be  here. 

Duch.  I  long  with  all  my  heart  to  see  the  prince ; 
I  hope,  he  is  much  grown  since  last  I  saw  him. 
Q.  Eliz.  But  I  hear,  no ;  they  say,  my  son  of 
York 
Hath  almost  overta'en  him  in  his  growth. 

Yorh.  Ay,  mother,  but  I  would  not  have  it  so. 
Duch.  Why,  my  young  cousin  ?  it  is  good  to 

grow. 
York.   Grandam,  one  night,  as  we  did  sit  at 
supper. 
My  uncle  Rivers  talk'd  how  I  did  grow 
More  than  my  brother :  "  Ay,"  quoth  my  uncle 

Gloster, 
"  Small  herbs  have  grace,  great  weeds  do  grow 

apace :" 
And  since,  methinks,  1  would  not  grow  so  fast. 
Because  sweet  flowers  are  slow,  and  weeds  make 
haste. 
Duch.  'Good  faith,  'good  faith,  the  saying  did 
not  hold 
In  him  that  did  object  the  same  to  thee : 
He  was  the  wretched'st  thing,  when  he  was  young 
So  long  a  growing,  and  so  leisurely, 
That,  if  his  rule  were  true,  he  should  be  gracious. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    I. 


Arch.  And   so,  no  doubt,  he  is,  my  gracious 

madam. 
Duck.  I  hope,  he  is  ;  but  yet  let  mothers  doubt. 
York.  Now,  by  my  troth,  if  I  had  been  re- 
member'd, 
I  could  have  given  my  uncle's  grace  a  flout. 
To  touch  his  growth,  nearer  than  he  touch'd  mine. 
Duck.  How,  my  young  York  ?   I  pr'ythee  let 

me  hear  it. 
York.  Marry,  they  say,  my  uncle  grew  so  fast, 
riiat  he  could  gnaw  a  crust  at  two  hours  old ; 
'T  was  full  two  years  ere  I  could  get  a  tooth. 
Grandara,  this  would  have  been  a  biting  jest. 
Duch.  I  pr'ythee,  pretty  York,  who  told  thee 

this  ? 
York.  Grandam,  his  nurse. 
Duch.  His  nurse !  why,  she  was  dead  ere  thou 

wast  born. 
York.  If  't  were  not  she,  I  cannot  tell  who  told 

me. 
^.  Eliz.  A  parlous  boy :  Go  to,  you  are  too 

shrewd. 
Arch.    Good   madam,  be  not  angry  with  the 

child. 
Q.  Eliz.  Pitchers  have  ears. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Arch.  Here  comes  a  messenger : 

What  news  ? 

Mess.         Such  news,  my  lord. 
As  grieves  me  to  unfold. 

Q.  Eliz.  How  doth  the  prince  ? 

Mess.  Well,  madam,  and  in  health. 

Duch.  What  is  thy  news  ? 

Mess.  Lord  Rivers,  and  lord  Grey,  are  sent  to 
Pomfret, 
With  them  sir  Thomas  Viughan,  prisoners. 


Duch.  Who  hath  committed  them  ? 

Mess.  The  mighty  dukes^ 

Gloster  and  Buckingham. 

Q.  Eliz.  For  what  offence  ? 

Mess.  The  sum  of  all  I  can,  I  have  disclos'd  ; 
Why,  or  for  what,  the  nobles  were  committed, 
Is  all  unknown  to  me,  my  gracious  lady. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah  me,  I  see  the  ruin  of  my  house ! 
The  tiger  now  hath  seiz'd  the  gentle  hind  ; 
Insulting  tyranny  begins  to  jet 
Upon  the  innocent  and  awless  throne : — 
Welcome,  destruction,  blood,  and  massacre, 
I  see,  as  in  a  map,  the  end  of  all. 

Duch.  Accursed  and  unquiet  wrangling  days ! 
How  many  of  you  have  mine  eyes  beheld  ? 
My  husband  lost  his  life  to  get  the  crown  ; 
And  often  up  and  down  my  sons  were  tost, 
For  me  to  joy,  and  weep,  their  gain,  and  loss ; 
And  being  seated,  and  domestic  broils 
Clean  over-blown,  themselves,  the  conquerors, 
Make  war  upon  themselves  ;  brother  to  brother, 
Blood  to  blood,  self 'gainst  self: — O,  preposterous 
And  frantic  courage,  end  thy  damned  spleen ; 
Or  let  me  die,  to  look  on  death  no  more  ! 

Q.  Eliz.  Come,  come,  my  boy,  we  will  to  sanc- 
tuary.— 
Madam,  farewell. 

Duch.  Stay,  I  will  go  with  you. 

Q.  Eliz.  You  have  no  cause. 

Arch.  My  gracious  lady,  go, 

[To  the  Queen. 
And  thither  bear  your  treasure  and  your  goods. 
For  my  part,  I  '11  resign  unto  your  grace 
The  seal  I  keep :  And  so  betide  to  me. 
As  well  I  tender  you,  and  all  of  yours  ! 
Come,  I  '11  conduct  you  to  the  sanctuary. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— The  Same.     A  Street. 

The  Trumpets  sound.  Enter  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  Gloster,  Buckingham,  Cardinal 
BouRCHiER,  and  Others. 

Buck.  Welcome,  sweet  prince,  to  London,  to 
your  chamber. 


Glo.  Welcome,  dear  cousin,  my  thought's  sove- 
reign : 
The  weary  way  hath  made  you  melancholy. 
Prince.    No,  uncle;   but   our   crosses   on   tha 
way 
Have  rnade  it  tedious,  wearisome,  and  heavy : 
I  want  more  uncles  here  to  welcome  me. 

1019 


ACT    111. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


Glo.  Sweet  prince,  the  untainted  virtue  of  your 

years 
Hath  not  yet  div'd  into  the  world's  deceit : 
No  more  can  you  distinguish  of  a  man, 
Than  of  his  outward  show  ;  which,  God  he  knows, 
Seldom,  or  never,  jurapeth  with  the  heart. 
Those  uncles,  which  you  want,  were  dangerous ; 
Your  grace  attended  to  the  sugar'd  words. 
But  look'd  not  on  the  poison  of  their  hearts  : 
God  keep  you  from  them,  and  from  such  false 

friends  ! 
Prince.    God  keep  me  from  false  friends  !  but 

they  were  none. 
Glo.  My  lord,  the  Mayor  of  London  comes  to 

greet  you. 

Enter  the  Lord  Mator,  arvd  his  Train. 

May.  God  bless  your  grace  with  health  and 

happy  days ! 
Prince.    I   thank   you,  good    my   lord  ; — and 
thank  you  all. —       [jExeunt  May.,  etc. 
I  thought  my  mother,  and  my  brother  York, 
Would  long  ere  this  have  met  us  on  the  way : 
Fye,  what  a  slug  is  Hastings !  that  he  comes  not 
To  tell  us,  whether  they  will  come,  or  no. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Buck.  And  in  good  time,  here  comes  the  sweat- 
ing lord. 

Prince.    Welcome,  my  lord  :  What,  will   our 
mother  come  ? 

Hast.  On  what  occasion,  God  he  knows,  not  I, 
The  queen  your  mother,  and  your  brother  York, 
Have  taken  sanctuary  :  The  tender  prince 
Would  fain  have  come  with  me  to  meet  your 

grace, 
Hut  by  his  mother  was  perforce  withheld. 

Buck.  Fye!  what  an  indirect  and  peevish  course 
Is  this  of  hers  ? — Lord  Cardinal,  will  your  grace 
Persuade  the  queen  to  send  the  duke  of  York 
Unto  his  princely  brother  presently  ? 
If  she  deny, — lord  Hastings,  go  with  him. 
And  from  her  jealous  arms  pluck  him  perforce. 

Card.  My  lord   of  Buckingham,    if  my  weak 
oratory 
Can  from  his  mother  win  the  duke  of  York, 
Anon  expect  him  here  :  But  if  she  be  obdurate 
To  mild  entreaties,  God  in  heaven  forbid 
We  should  infringe  the  holy  privilege 
Of  blessed  sanctuary  !  not  for  all  this  land, 
Would  1  be  guilty  of  so  deep  a  sin. 

Buck.  You  are  too  senseless-obstinate,  my  lord, 
1020 


Too  ceremonious,  and  traditional : 

Weigh  it  but  with  the  grossness  of  this  age. 

You  break  not  sanctuary  in  seizing  him. 

The  benefit  thereof  is  always  granted. 

To  those  whose  dealings  have  deserv'd  the  place, 

And  those  who  have  the  wit  to  claim  the  place: 

This  prince  hath  neither  claim'd  it,  nor  deserv'd 

it; 

And  therefore,  in  mine  opinion,  cannot  have  it : 
Then,  taking  him  from  thence,  that  is  not  there, 
You  break  no  privilege  nor  charter  there. 
Oft  have  I  heard  of  sanctuary  men  ; 
But  sanctuary  children,  ne'er  till  now. 

Card.  My  lord,  you  shall  o'er-rule  my  mind  for 
once. — 
Come  on,  lord  Hastings,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Hast.  I  go,  my  lord. 

Prince.  Good  lords,  make  all  the  speedy  haste 
you  may.       \^Exeunt  Card,  and  Hast. 
Say,  uncle  Gloster,  if  our  brother  come, 
Where  shall  we  sojourn  till  our  coronation  ? 

Glo.  Where  it  seems  best  unto  your  royal  self. 
If  I  may  counsel  you,  some  day,  or  two, 
Your  highness  shall  repose  you  at  the  Tower : 
Then  where  you  please,  and  shall  be  thought  most 

fit 
For  your  best  health  and  recreation. 

Prince.  I  do  not  like  the  Tower,  of  any  placer- 
Did  Julius  Caesar  build  that  place,  my  lord  ? 

Glo.    He   did,   my  gracious    lord,  begin    thai 
place ; 
Which,  since,  succeeding  ages  have  re-edified. 

Prince.  Is  it  upon  record  ?  or  else  reported 
Successively  from  age  to  age  he  built  it  ? 

Buck.  Upon  record,  my  gracious  lord. 

Prince.  But  say,  my  lord,  it  were  not  register'd ; 
Methiiiks,  the  truth  should  live  from  age  to  age, 
As  't  were  retail'd  to  all  posterity. 
Even  to  the  general  all-ending  day. 

Glo.  So  wise  so  young,  they  say,  do  ne'er  live 
long.  [Aside. 

Prince.  What  say  you,  uncle  ? 

Glo.  I  say,  without  characters,  fame  lives  long. 
Thus,  like  the  formal  vice.  Iniquity,  [Aside, 

I  moralize  two  meanings  in  one  word." 

Prince.  That  Julius  CiEsar  was  a  famous  man  ; 
With  what  his  valour  did  enrich  his  wit, 
Ilis  wit  set  down  to  make  his  valour  live: 
Death  makes  no  conquest  of  this  conqueror; 
For  now  he  lives  in  fame,  though  not  in  life. — 
1  Ml  tell  you  what,  my  cousin  Buckingham. 

Buck.  What,  my  gracious  lord  ? 


KIXG  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


Prince.  An  if  I  live  until  I  be  a  man, 
1  '11  win  our  ancient  right  in  France  again, 
Or  die  a  soldier,  as  I  liv'd  a  king. 

Glo.    SLort  summers  lightly  have  a  forward 
spring.  \Aside. 

Enter  York,  Hastings,  and  the  Cardinal. 

Buck.  Now,  in  good  time,  here  comes  the  duke 

of  York. 
Prince.  Richard  of  York  !  how  fares  our  loving 

brother  ? 
York.  Well,  my  dread   lord ;  so  must  I  call 

you  now. 
Prince.  Ay,  brother ;  to  our  grief,  as  it  is  yours : 
Too  late  he  died,  that  might  have  kept  that  title. 
Which  by  his  death  hath  lost  much  majesty. 
Glo.  How  fares  our  cousin,  noble  lord  of  York  ? 
York.  I  thank  you,  gentle  uncle.     O,  my  lord. 
You  said,  that  idle  weeds  are  fast  in  growth : 
The  prince  my  brother  hath  outgrown  me  far. 
Glo.  He  hath,  my  lord. 

York.  And  therefore  is  he  idle  ? 

Glo.  0,  my  fair  cousin,  I  must  not  say  so. 
York.  Then  is  he  more  beholden  to  you  than  I  ? 
Glo.  He  may  command  me,  as  my  sovereign ; 
But  you  have  power  in  me,  as  in  a  kinsman. 
York.  I  pray  you,  uncle,  then,  give   me  this 

dagger. 
Glo.  My  dagger,  little  cousin  ?  with  all  my  heart. 
Prince.  A  beggar,  brother  ? 
York.  Of  my  kind  uncle,  that  I  know  will  give ; 
And,  being  but  a  toy,  which  is  no  grief  to  give. 
Glo.  A    greater   gift    than    that  I  '11  give  my 

cousin. 
York.  A  greater  gift !  O,  that 's  the  sword  to  it  ? 
Glo.  Ay,  gentle  cousin,  were  it  light  enough. 
York.  0  then,  I  see,  you  '11  part  but  with  light 

gifts  ; 
III  weightier  things  you  '11  say  a  beggar,  nay. 
Glo.  It  is  too  weighty  for  your  grace  to  wear. 
York.  I  weigh  it  lightly,  were  it  heavier. 
Glo.  What,  would  you  have  my  weapon,  little 

lord? 
York.  I  would,  that  I  might  thank  you  as  you 

call  me. 
Glo.  How? 
York.  Little. 
Prince.  My  lord  of  York  will  still  be  cross  in 

talk ; — 
Uncle,  your  grace  knows  how  to  bear  with  him. 
York.  You  mean,  to  bear  me,  not  to  bear  with 

me : — 


Uncle,  my  brother  mocks  both  you  and  me ; 
Because  that  I  am  little,  like  an  ape. 
He  thinks  that  you  should  bear  me  on  your  shoul 
ders. 
Buck.  With  what  a  sharp  provided  wit  he  rea 
sons ! 
To  mitigate  the  scorn  he  gives  his  uncle, 
He  prettily  and  aptly  taunts  himself: 
So  cunning,  and  so  young,  is  wonderful. 

Glo.  My  gracious  lord,  will  't  please  you  pass 
along  ? 
Myself,  and  my  good  cousin  Buckingham, 
Will  to  your  mother  ;  to  entreat  of  her, 
To  meet  you  at  the  Tower,  and  welcome  you. 
York.  What,  will  you  go  unto  the  Tower,  my 

lord  ? 
Prince.  My  lord  protector  needs  will  have  it  so. 
York.  I  shall  not  sleep  in  quiet  at  the  Tower. 
Glo.  Why,  sir,  what  should  you  fear  ? 
York.  Marry,  my  uncle  Clarence'  angry  ghost; 
My  grandam  told  me,  he  was  murder'd  there. 
Prince.  I  fear  no  uncles  dead. 
Glo.  Nor  none  that  live,  I  hope. 
Prince.   An  if  they  live,  I  hope,  1  need  not 
fear. 
But  come,  my  lord,  and,  with  a  heavy  heart. 
Thinking  on  them,  go  I  unto  the  Tower. 

[Uxeunt  Prince,  York,  Hast.,  Card., 
and  Attend. 
Buck.  Think  you,  my  lord,  this  little  prating 
York 
Was  not  incensed  by  his  subtle  mother, 
To  taunt  and  scorn  you  thus  opprobriously  ? 
Glo.  No  doubt,  no  doubt:   O,  't  is  a  parlous 
boy; 
Bold,  quick,  ingenious,  forward,  capable ; 
He  's  all  the  mother's,  from  the  top  to  toe. 

Buck.  Well,  let  them  rest. — 
Come  hither,  gentle  Catesby  ;  thou  art  sworn 
As  deeply  to  effect  what  we  intend. 
As  closely  to  conceal  what  we  impart : 
Thou  know'st  our  reasons  urg'd  upon  the  way  ; — 
What  think'st  thou  ?  is  it  not  an  easy  matter 
To  make  William  lord  Hastings  of  our  mind. 
For  the  instalment  of  this  noble  duke 
In  the  seat  royal  of  this  famous  isle  ? 

Cate.  He   for   his   father's   sake  so   loves  the 
prince. 
That  he  will  not  be  won  to  aught  against  him. 
Buck.  What  think'st   thou  then    of   Stanley} 

will  not  he  ? 
Cate.  He  will  do  all  in  all  as  Hastings  doth. 

1021 


ACT    III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE  n. 


Buck.  Well  then,  no  more  but  this :  Go,  gen- 
tle Catesby, 
And,  as  it  were  far  off,  sound  thou  lord  Hastings, 
How  be  doth  stand  affected  to  our  purpose  ; 
And  summon  him  to-morrow  to  the  Tcwer 
To  sit  about  the  coronation. 
If  thou  dost  find  him  tractable  to  us, 
Encourage  him,  and  tell  him  all  our  reasons  : 
If  he  be  leaden,  icy,  cold,  unwilling. 
Be  thou  eo  too  ;  and  so  break  ofi"  the  talk. 
And  give  us  notice  of  his  inclination  : 
For  we  to-morrow  hold  divided  councils,^ 
Wherein  thyself  shalt  highly  be  eraploy'd. 

Glo.  Commend  me  to  lord  William  :  tell  him, 
Catesby, 
His  ancient  knot  of  dangerous  adversaries 
To-morrow  are  let  blood  at  Pomfret-castle  ; 
And  bid  my  friend,  for  joy  of  this  good  news, 
Give  mistress  Shore  one  gentle  kiss  the  more. 
Buck.  Good  Catesby,   go,  effect  this   business 

soundly. 
Gate.  My  good  lords  both,  with  all  the  heed  I 

can. 
Glo.  Shall  we  hear  from  you,  Catesby,  ere  we 

sleep  ? 
Cute.  You  shall,  my  lord. 
Glo.  At  Crosby-place,  there  shall  you  find  us 
both.  [Exit  Cate. 

Buck.  Now,  my  lord,  what  shall  we  do  if  we 
perceive 
Lord  Hastings  will  not  yield  to  our  complots  ? 
Glo.  Chqp  off  his  head,  man ; — somewhat  we 
will  do  : — 
And,  look,  when  I  am  king,  claim  thou  of  me 
The  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  all  the  movables 
Whereof  the  king  my  brother  was  possess'd. 
Buck.  I  '11  claim  that  promise  at  jour  grace's 

hand, 
Glo.  And  look  to  have  it  yielded  with  all  kind- 
ness. 
Come,  let  us  sup  betimes  ;  that  afterwards 
We  may  digest  our  complots  in  some  form. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Before  Lord  Hastings'  House. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  my  lord, —  [Knocking. 

Hast.  [  Within:\  Who  knocks  ? 

Mess.  One  from  lord  Stanley. 

Hast.  [  Within:]  What  is  't  o'clock  ? 
Mess.  Upoix  the  stroke  of  four. 
1022 


Enter  Hastings. 

Hast.    Cannot    thy   master   sleep  the   tedious 
nights  ? 

Mess.  So  it  should  seem  by  that  I  have  to  say. 
First,  he  commends  him  to  your  noble  lordship. 

Hast.  And  then, 

Mess.  And  then  he  sends  you  word,  he  dreamt 
To-night  the  boar  had  rased  off  his  helm  :*' 
Besides,  he  says,  there  are  two  councils  held ; 
And  that  may  be  determin'd  at  the  one. 
Which  may  make  you    and  him  to  rue  at  the 

other. 
Therefore  he  sends  to  know  your  lordship's  plea- 
sure,— 
If  presently,  you  will  take  horse  with  him. 
And   with  all  speed   post  with  him  toward  the 

north. 
To  shun  the  danger  that  his  soul  divines. 

Hast.  Go,  fellow,  go,  return  unto  thy  lord ; 
Bid  him  not  fear  the  separated  councils : 
His  honour,  and  myself,  are  at  the  one ; 
And,  at  the  other,  is  my  good  friend  Catesby ; 
Where  nothing  can  proceed,  that  toucheth  us. 
Whereof  I  shall  not  have  intelligence. 
Tell  him,  his  fears  are  shallow,  wanting  instance: 
And  for  his  dreams — I  wonder  he  's  so  fond 
To  trust  the  mockery  of  unquiet  slumbers: 
To  fly  the  boar,  before  the  boar  pursues. 
Were  to  incense  the  boar  to  follow  us. 
And  make  pursuit,  where  he  did  mean  no  chase. 
Go,  bid  thy  master  rise  and  come  to  me; 
And  we  will  both  together  to  the  Tower, 
Where,  he  shall  see,  the  boar  will  use  us  kindly. 

Mess.  I  '11  go,  my  lord,  and  tell  him  what  you 
say.  [Exit. 

Enter  Catesdy. 

Cate.  Many  good  morrows  to  my  noble  lord  ! 
Hast.  Good  morrow,  Catesby  ;  you  are  early 
stirring  : 
What  news,  what  news,  in  this  our  tottering  state  I 

Cate.  It  is  a  reeling  world,  indeed,  my  lord  ; 
And,  I  believe,  will  never  stand  upright, 
Till  Richard  wear  the  garland  of  the  realm. 
Hast.  How !  wear  the  garland  ?  dost  thou  mean 

the  crown  ? 
Cate.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Hast.  I  'II  have  this  crown  of  mine  cut  from  my 
shoulders. 
Before  I  '11  see  the  crown  so  foul  misplac'd. 
But  canst  thou  guess  that  he  doth  aim  at  it? 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


Cate.  Ay,  on  my  life ;  and  hopes  to  find  you 
forward 
U"{  on  his  party,  for  the  gain  thereof: 
And,  thereupon,  he  sends  you  this  good  news, — 
That,  this  same  very  day,  your  enemies, 
The  kindred  of  the  queen,  must  die  at  Pomfret. 
Hast.    Indeed,    I   am    no    mourner    for   that 
news. 
Because  they  have  been  still  my  adversaries  : 
But,  that  I  '11  give  my  voice  on  Richard's  side. 
To  bar  my  master's  heirs  in  true  descent, 
God  knows,  I  will  not  do  it,  to  the  death. 

Cate.  God  keep  your  lordship  in  that  gracious 

mind  ! 
Hast.  But  I  shall  laugh  at  this  a  twelve-month 
hence, — 
That  they,  who  brought  me  in  my  master's  hate, 
I  live  to  look  upon  their  tragedy. 
Well,  Catesby,  ere  a  fortnight  make  me  older, 
I  '11  send  some  packing,  that  yet  think  not  on  't. 
Cate.  'T  is  a  vile  thing  to  die,  my  gracious 
lord, 
When  men  are  unprepar'd,  and  look  not  for  it. 
Hast.  O  monstrous,  monstrous  !  and  so  falls  it 
out 
With  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey :  and  so  't  will  do 
With  some  men  else,  who  think  themselves  as  safe 
As  thou,  and  I ;  who,  as  thou  know'st,  are  dear 
To  princely  Richard,  and  to  Buckingham. 

Cate.  The  princes  both  make  high  account  of 
.you,— 
For  they  account  his  head  upon  the  bridge.  \^Aside. 
Hast.  I  know,  they  do ;  and  I  have  well  de- 
serv'd  it. 

Enter  Stanley. 

Come  on,  come  on,  where   is  your  boar-spear, 

man  ? 
Fear  you  the  boar,  and  go  so  unprovided  ? 

Stan.  My  lord,  good  morrow  ;  and  good  mor- 
row, Catesby : — 
You  may  jest  on,  but,  by  the  holy  rood, 
I  do  not  like  these  several  councils,  I. 

Hast.  My  lord,  I  hold  my  life  as  dear  as  yours ; 
And  never,  in  my  life,  I  do  protest, 
Was  it  more  precious  to  me  than  't  is  now : 
Think  you,  but  that  I  know  our  state  secure, 
[  would  be  so  triumphant  as  I  am  ? 

Stan.  The  lords   at  Pomfret,  when  they  rode 
from  London, 
Were  jocund,  and  suppos'd  their  states  were  sure. 
And  they,  indeed,  had  no  cause  to  mistrust ; 


But  yet,  you  see,  how  soon  the  day  o'er-cast. 
This  sudden  stab  of  rancour  I  misdoubt ; 
Pray  God,  I  say,  I  prove  a  needless  coward ! 
What,  shall  we  toward  the  Tower  ?  the  day  is 

spent. 
Hast.  Come,  come,  have  with  you. — Wot  you 

what,  my  lord  ? 
To-day,  the  lords  you  talk  of  are  beheaded. 
Stan.  They,  for  their  truth,  might  better  wear 

their  heads. 
Than  some,  that  have  accus'd  them,  wear  their 

hats. 
But  come,  my  lord,  let 's  away. 

Enter  a  Pursuivant. 

Hast.  Go  on  before,  I  '11  talk  with  this  good 

fellow.  \Exeunt  Stan,  and  Gates. 

How  now,  sirrah  ?  how  goes  the  world  with  thee  ? 

Purs.  The  better,  that  your  lordship  please  to 

ask. 
Hast.  I  tell  thee,  man,  't  is  better  with  me  now. 
Than  when  thou  met'st  me  last  where  now  we 

meet : 
Then  was  I  going  prisoner  to  the  Tower, 
By  the  suggestion  of  the  queen's  allies  ; 
But  now,  I  tell  thee,  (keep  it  to  thyself,) 
This  day  those  enemies  are  put  to  death. 
And  I  in  better  state  than  ere  I  was. 

Furs.  God  hold  it,  to  your  honour's  good  con- 
tent! 
Hast.  Gramercy,  fellow :  There,  drink  that  foi 
me.  [^Throwing  him  his  Purse, 

Purs.  1  thank  your  honour.  [^Exit  Purs. 

Enter  a  Priest. 

Pr.  Well  met,  my  lord  ;  I  am  glad  to  see  your 

honour. 
Hast.  I  thank  thee,  good  sir  John,  with  all  my 
heart. 
I  am  in  your  debt  for  your  last  exercise ; 
Come  the  next  Sabbath,  and  I  will  content  you. 
Pr.  I  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship. 

Enter  Buckingham. 

JBuck.  What,  talking  with  a  priest,  lord  cham- 
berlain ? 
Your  friends  at  Pomfret,  they  do  need  the  priest , 
Your  honour  hath  no  shriving  work  in  hand. 
Hast.  'Good  faith,  and  when  I  met  th's  holy 
man. 
The  men  you  talk  of  came  into  my  mind. 
What,  go  you  toward  the  Tower  ? 

1023 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    III-IV. 


Buck.  I  do,  my  lord  ;  but  long  I  cannot  stay 
there  : 
I  shall  return  before  your  lordship  thence. 
Hast.  Nay,  like  enough,  for  1  stay  dinner  there. 
Buck.  And  supper  too,  although  thoa  know'st 
it  not.  [Aside. 

Clome,  will  you  go  ? 
Hast.  I  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Pomfret.     Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Ratcliff,  with  a  Guard^  conducting  Riv- 
ers, Grey,^  and  Vaughan,  to  Execution. 

Rut.  Come,  bring  forth  the  prisoners. 

Riv.  Sir  Richard  Ratcliff,  let  me  tell  thee  this, — 
To-day,  shalt  thou  behold  a  subject  die, 
For  truth,  for  duty,  and  for  loyalty. 

Grey.  God  keep  the  prince  from  all  the  pack 
of  you  1 
A  knot  you  are  of  damned  blood-suckers. 

Vaugh.  You  live,  that  shall  cry  woe  for  this 
hereafter. 

Rat.  Despatch  ;  the  limit  of  your  lives  is  out. 

Riv.  0  Pomfret,  Pomfret !  O  thou  bloody  prison, 
Fatal  and  ominous  to  noble  peers ! 
Within  the  guilty  'closure  of  thy  walls, 
Richard  the  Second  here  was  hack'd  to  death : 
And,  for  more  slander  to  thy  dismal  seat. 
We  give  thee  up  our  guiltless  blood  to  drink. 

Orey.  Now  Margaret's  curse  is  fallen  upon  our 
heads. 
When  she  exclaim'd  on  Hastings,  you,  and  I, 
For  standing  by  when  Richard  stabb'd  her  son. 

Riv.  Then  curs'd  she  Hastings,  then  curs'd  she 
Buckingham, 
Then  curs'd  she  Richard  : — 0,  remember,  God, 
To  hear  her  prayers  for  them,  as  now  for  us ! 
And  for  my  sister,  and  her  princely  sons, — 
Be  satisfied,  dear  God,  with  our  true  bloods. 
Which,  as  thou  know'st,  unjustly  must  be  spilt! 

Rat.  Make  haste,  the  hour  of  death  is  expiate. 

Riv.    Come,   Grey, — come,   Vaughan, — let  us 
here  embrace  : 
Farewell,  until  we  meet  again  in  heaven.   [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — London.    A  Room  in  the  Tower. 

Buckingham,  Stanley,  Hastings,  the  Bishop  of 
Ely,  Catesby,  Lovel,  and  Others,  sitting  at  a 
Table:  Officers  o/" /Ae  Council  attending. 

Hast.  Now,  noble  ])eers,  the  cause  why  we  are  met 
1024 


Is — to  determine  of  the  coronation  : 

In  God's  name,  speak,  when  is  the  royal  day  ? 

Buck.  Are  all  things  ready  for  that  royal  time? 

Stan.  They  are ;  and  wants  but  nomination. 

Ely.  To-morrow  then  I  judge  a  happy  day. 

Buck.  Who  knows  the  lord  protector's  mind 
herein  ? 
Who  is  most  inward  with  the  noble  duke  ? 

Ely.    Your   grace,    we    think,  should    soonest 
know  his  mind. 

Buck.    We  know  each  other's  faces  :  for  our 
hearts, — 
He  knows  no  more  of  mine,  than  I  of  yours ; 
Nor  I,  of  his,  my  lord,  than  you  of  mine  : — 
Lord  Hastings,  you  and  he  are  near  in  love. 

Hast.  I  thank  his  grace,  I  know  he  loves  me 
well ; 
But,  for  his  purpose  in  the  coronation, 
I  have  not  sounded  him,  nor  he  deliver'd 
His  gracious  pleasure  any  way  therein  : 
But  you,  my  noble  lord,  may  name  the  time ; 
And  in  the  duke's  behalf  I'll  give  my  voice. 
Which,  I  presume,  he  '11  take  in  gentle  part. 

Enter  Gloster. 

Ely.  In  happy  time,  here  comes  the  duke  him- 
self. 
Glo.    My  noble  lords  and  cousins,  all,  good 
morrow : 
I  have  been  long  a  sleeper ;  but,  I  trust. 
My  absence  doth  neglect  no  great  design, 
Which  by  my  presence  might  have  been  con- 
cluded. 
Buck.    Had  you  not  come  upon  your  cue,  my 
lord, 
WiUiam  lordHastings  had  pronounc'd  your  part, — 
I  mean,  your  voice, — for  crowning  of  the  king. 
Glo.  Than  my  lord  Hastings,  no  man  might  be 
bolder ; 
His  lordship  knows  me  well,  and  loves  me  well. — 
My  lord  of  Ely,  when  I  was  last  in  Holborn, 
I  saw  good  strawberries  in  your  garden  there  ; 
I  do  beseech  you,  send  for  some  of  them. 

Ely.    Marry,   and  will,  my  lord,  with   all   my 

heart.  [Exit  Ely 

Glo.  Cousin  of  Buckingham,  a  word  with  you. 

[Takes  him  aside. 
Catesby  hath  sounded  Hastings  in  our  business ; 
And  finds  the  testy  gentleman  so  hot, 
That  he  will  lose  his  head,  ere  give  consent. 
His  master's  child,  as  worshipfuUy  Le  terms  it. 
Shall  lose  the  royalty  of  England's  throne. 


ACT   III. 


KING  PJCHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    V. 


Buck.  Withdraw  yourself  awhile,  I  *11  go  with 
you.  [Exeunt  Glo.  and  Buck. 

Stan.  We  have  not  yet  set  down  this  day  of 
triumph. 
To-morrow,  in  my  judgment,  is  too  sudden  ; 
For  I  myself  am  not  so  well  provided, 
As  else  1  would  be,  were  the  day  prolong'd. 

Re-enter  Bishop  of  Elv. 

Ely.  Where  is  my  lord  protector  ?   T  have  sent 
For  these  strawberries. 

Hast.  His  grace  looks  cheerfully  and  smooth 
this  morning; 
There  's  some  conceit  or  other  likes  him  well, 
When  he  doth  bid  good  morrow  with  such  spirit. 
I  think,  there  's  ne'er  a  man  in  Christendom, 
Can  lesser  hide  his  love,  or  hate,  than  he ; 
For  by  his  face  straight  shall  you  know  his  heart. 
Stan.  What  of  his  heart  perceive  you  in  his 
face. 
By  any  likelihood  he  show'd  to-day  ? 

Hast.  Marry,  that  with  no  man  here  he  is  of- 
fended ; 
P'or,  were  he,  he  had  shown  it  in  his  looks. 

Re-enter  Gloster  and  BucjaKGHAM. 

Olo.  I  pray  you  all,  tell  me  what  they  deserve, 
That  do  conspire  my  death  with  devilish  plots 
Of  damned  witchcraft;  and  that  have  prevail'd 
Upon  my  body  with  their  hellish  charms  ? 

Hast.  The  tender  love  I  bear  your  grace,  my 
lord, 
Makes  me  most  forward  in  this  noble  presence 
To  doom  the  offenders :  Whosoe'er  they  be, 
I  say,  my  lord,  they  have  deserved  death. 

Glo.  Then  be  your  eyes  the  witness  of  their  evil. 
Look  how  I  am  bewitch'd  ;  behold  mine  arm 
Is,  like  a  blasted  sapling,  wither'd  up : 
And  this  is  Edward's  wife,  that  monstrous  witch, 
Consorted  with  that  harlot,  strumpet  Shore, 
That  by  their  witchcraft  thus  have  marked  me. 

Hunt.  If  they  have  done  this  deed,  my  noble 
lord, 

Olo.  If!  thou  protector  of  this  damned  strumpet, 
Talk'st  thou  to  me  of  ifs  ? — Thou  art  a  traitor  : — 
Off  with  his  head  : — now,  by  Saint  Paul  I  swear, 
I  will  noi  dine  until  I  see  the  same. — 
Lovel,  and  Catesby,  look,  that  it  be  done  ; 
The  rest,  that  love  me,  rise,  and  follow  me. 

[Exeunt  Council,  xoith  Glo.  aw?  Book. 

Husi.  Woe,  «oc,  for  England  I  nut  a  whit  for 
me; 

129 


For  I,  too  fond,  might  have  prevented  this  * 
Stanley  did  dream,  the  boar  did  rase  his  helm: 
But  I  disdain'd  it,  and  did  scorn  to  fly. 
Three  times  to-day  my  foot- cloth  horse  did  stum- 

ble,^° 
And  startled,  when  he  look'd  upon  the  Tower, 
As  loath  to  bear  me  to  the  slaughter-house. 
O,  now  I  want  the  priest  that  spake  to  me : 
I  now  repent  I  told  the  pursuivant, 
As  too  triumphing,  how  mine  enemies, 
To-day  at  Pomfret  bloodily  were  butcher'd. 
And  I  myself  secure  in  grace  and  favour. 
O,  Margaret,  Margaret,  now  thy  heavy  curse 
Is  lighted  on  poor  Hastings'  wretched  head. 

Cate.  Despatch,  my  lord,  the  duke  would  be  at 

dinner ; 
Make  a  short  shrift,  he  longs  to  see  your  head. 

Hast.  O  momentary  grace  of  mortal  men, 
Which    we    more   hunt   for   than    the   grace    of 

God! 
Who  builds  his  hope  in  air  of  your  fair  looks, 
Lives  like  a  drunken  sailor  on  a  mast ; 
Ready,  with  every  nod,  to  tumble  down 
Into  the  fatal  bowels  of  the  deep. 

Lov.  Come,  come,  despatcli ;   't  is  bootless  to 

exclaim. 
Hast.  O,  bloody  Richard ! — miserable  England ; 
I  prophesy  the  fearful'st  time  to  thee. 
That  ever  wretched  age  hath  look'd  upon. — 
Come,  lead  me  to  the  block,  bear  him  my  head; 
They  smile  at  me,  who  shortly  shall  be  dead. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  Y.—The  Same.     The  Tower  Walls. 

Enter  Gloster  and  Buckingham,  in  rusty  ar- 
mour, marvellous  ill-favoured.^^ 

Glo.  Come,  cousin,  canst  thou  quake,  and  change 
thy  colour  ? 
Murder  thy  breath  in  middle  of  a  word, — 
And  then  again  begin,  and  stop  again. 
As  if  thou  wert  distraught,  and  mad  with  terror? 

Buck.  Tut,  I  can  counterfeit  the  deep  tragedian 
Speak,  and  look  back,  and  pry  on  every  side, 
Tremble  and  start  at  wagging  of  a  straw, 
Intending  deep  suspicion  :  ghastly  looks 
Are  at  my  service,  like  enforced  smiles  ; 
And  both  are  ready  in  their  offices. 
At  any  time,  to  grace  my  stratagems. 
But  what,  is  Catesby  gone  ? 

Glo.  He  is;   and,  see,  he  brngs   the   mayor 
along. 

1026 


KING  KICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


hCENB    ▼. 


Enter  the  Lord  Matob  and  Catesbt. 

Buck.  Let  me  alone  to  entertain  him. — Lord 

mayor, 

Glo.  Look  to  the  draw-bridge  there. 

Buck.  Hark,  hark!  a  drum. 

Glo.  Catesby,  o'erlook  the  walls. 

Buck.  Lord  mayor,  the  reason  we  have  sent  for 

you, 

Glo.  Look  back,  defend  thee,  here  are  enemies. 
Buck.  God  and  our  innocence  defend  and  guard 
us! 

Enter  Lovel  and  Ratcliff,  with  Hastings' 
Jlead. 

Glo.  Be  patient,  they  are  friends ;  Ratcliff,  and 
Lovel. 

Lov.  Here  is  the  head  of  that  ignoble  traitor. 
The  dangerous  and  unsuspected  Hastings. 

Glo.  So  dear  I  lov'd   the  man,  that  I  must 
weep. 
I  took  him  for  the  plainest,  harmless't  creature, 
That  breath'd  upon  the  earth  a  Christian  ; 
Made  him  my  book,  wherein  my  soul  recorded 
The  history  of  all  her  secret  thoughts  : 
So  smooth  he  daub'd  his  vice  with  show  of  virtue, 
That,  his  apparent  open  guilt  omitted, — 
I  mean,  his  conversation  with  Shore's  wife,^* 
He  liv'd  from  all  attainder  of  suspect. 

Buck.  Well,  well,  he  was  the  covert'st  shelter'd 
traitor 
That  ever  liv'd. — Look  you,  my  lord  mayor. 
Would  you  imagine,  or  almost  believe, 
(Were  't  not,  that  by  great  preservation 
We  live  to  tell  it  you,)  the  subtle  traitor 
This  day  had  plotted,  in  the  council-house, 
To  murder  me,  and  my  good  lord  of  Gloster  ? 

Mai/.  What!  had  he  so  ? 

Glo.   What!  think  you  we  are  Turks,  or  in- 
fidels ? 
Or  that  we  would,  against  the  form  of  law, 
Proceed  thus  rashly  in  the  villain's  death ; 
But  that  the  extreme  peiil  of  the  case. 
The  peace  of  England,  and  our  persons'  safety, 
Enforc  d  us  to  this  execution  ? 

Mat/.  Now,  fair  befal  you,  he  deserv'd  his  death ; 
And  your  good  graces  both  have  well  proceeded, 
To  warn  false  traitors  from  the  like  attempts. 
I  never  look'd  for  better  at  his  hands, 
After  he  once  fell  in  with  mistress  Shore. 

Buck.  Yet  had  we  not  determin'd  he  should 
die, 
ino6 


Until  your  lordship  came  to  see  his  end  ; 
Which  now  the  loving  haste  of  these  our  friends, 
Somewhat  against  our  meaning,  hath  prevented  : 
Because,  my  lord,  we  would  have  had  you  heard 
The  traitor  speak,  and  timorously  confess 
The  manner  and  the  purpose  of  his  treasons ; 
That  you  might  well  have  signified  the  same 
Unto  the  citizens,  who,  haply,  may 
Misconstrue  us  in  him,  and  wail  his  death. 

Ma]/.  But,  my  good  lord,  your  grace's  word 
shall  serve. 
As  well  as  I  had  seen,  and  heard  him  speak ; 
And  do  not  doubt,  right  noble  princes  both. 
But  I  '11  acquaint  our  duteous  citizens 
With  all  your  just  proceedings  in  this  case.     • 

Glo.  And  to  that  end  we  wish'd  your  lordship 
here. 
To  avoid  the  censures  of  the  carping  world. 

Buck.  But  since  you  came  too  late  of  our  intent, 
Yet  witness  what  you  hear  we  did  intend : 
And  so,  my  good  lord  mayor,  we  bid  farewell. 

[Exit  May, 

Glo.  Go,  after,  after,  cousin  Buckingham. 
The  mayor   towards   Guildhall  hies  him  in   all 

post : — 
There,  at  your  meetest  vantage  of  the  time. 
Infer  the  bastardy  of  Edward's  children  : 
Tell  them,  how  Edward  put  to  death  a  citizen. 
Only  for  saying — he  would  make  his  son 
Heir  to  the  crown  ;"  meaning,  indeed,  his  house, 
Which,  by  the  sign  thereof,  was  termed  so. 
Moreover,  urge  his  hateful  luxury, 
And  bestial  appetite  in  change  of  lust ; 
Which  stretch'd  unto  their  servants,  daughters, 

wives, 
Even  where  his  raging  eye,  or  savage  heart, 
Without  control,  listed  to  make  his  prey. 
Nay,  for  a  need,  thus  far  come  near  my  person: — 
Tell  them,  when  that  my  mother  went  with  child 
Of  that  insatiate  Edward,  noble  York, 
My  princely  father,  then  had  wars  in  France ; 
And,  by  just  computation  of  the  time. 
Found,  that  the  issue  was  not  his  begot ; 
Which  well  appeared  in  his  lineaments. 
Being  nothing  like  the  noble  duke  my  father : 
Yet  touch  this  sparingly,  as  't  were  far  off; 
Because,  my  lord,  you  know,  my  mother  lives. 

Buck.  Doubt  not,  my  lord ;  I  '11  play  the  orator, 
As  if  the  golden  fee,  for  which  I  plead. 
Were  for  myself:  and  so,  my  lord,  adieu. 

Glo.  If  you  thrve  well  bring  them  tr  Baynard't 
castle; 


ACT    III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    VI-^  11. 


Where  you  shall  find  me  well  accompanied, 
With  reverend  fathers,  and  well-learned  bishops. 

Buck.  I  go  ;  and,  towards  three  or  four  o'clock, 
Look  for  the  news  that  the  Guildhall  affords. 

\^Exit  Buck. 
Glo.    Go,   Lovel,   with    all    speed    to    doctor 
Shaw, — 
Go  thou  [To  Cat.]  to  friar  Penker ; — bid  them 

both 
Meet  rae,  within  this  hour,  at  Baynard's  castle. 

[Exeunt  Lev,  and  Cat. 
Now  will  I  in,  to  take  some  privy  order 
To  draw  the  brats  of  Clarence  out  of  sight  ;^* 
And  to  give  notice,  that  no  manner  of  person 
Have,  any  time,  recourse  unto  the  princes.    [Exit. 

SCENE  VI.— ^  Street. 
Enter  a  Scrivener. 

Scriv.  Here  is  the  indictment  of  the  good  lord 
Hastings  ; 
Which  in  a  set  hand  fairly  is  engross'd. 
That  it  may  be  to-day  read  o'er  in  Paul's. 
And  mark  how  well  the  sequel  hangs  together  : — 
Eleven  hours  I  have  spent  to  write  it  over, 
For  yesternight  by  Catesby  was  it  sent  rae  ; 
The  precedent  was  full  as  long  a  doing  : 
And  yet  within  these  five  hours  Hastings  liv'd, 
Untainted,  unexamin'd,  free,  at  liberty. 
Here's  a  good  world  the  while  ! — Who  is  so  gross, 
That  cannot  see  this  palpable  device  ? 
Yet  who  so  bold,  but  says — he  sees  it  not  ? 
Bad  is  the  world,  and  all  will  come  to  nought. 
When  such  bad  dealing  must  be  seen  in  thought. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  Nil.— The  Same.     Court  of  Baynard's 
Castle. 

Enter  Glosteb  and  Buckingham,  meeting. 

Glo.     How   now,   how   now?    what   say   the 

citizens  ? 
Buck.  Now  by  the  holy  mother  of  our  Lord, 
The  citizens  are  mum,  say  not  a  word. 

Glo.  Touch 'd  you   the   bastardy  of  Edward's 

children  ? 
B'>irk.  I  did ;    with    his    contract    with    Lady 
Lucy," 
And  his  contract  by  deputy  in  France  : 
The  insatiate  greediness  of  his  desires, 
And  his  enforcement  of  the  city  wives ; 
His  t^'inny  for  trifles  ;  his  own  bastardy, — 


As  being  goti,  your  father  then  in  France ; 
And  his  resennblance,  being  not  like  the  duke. 
Withal,  I  did  infer  your  lineaments, — 
Being  the  right  idea  of  your  father. 
Both  in  your  form  and  nobleness  of  mind  : 
Laid  open  all  your  victories  in  Scotland, 
Your  discipline  in  war,  wisdom  in  peace. 
Your  bounty,  virtue,  fair  humility ; 
Indeed,  left  nothing,  fitting  for  your  purpose, 
Untouch'd,  or  slightly  handled,  in  discourse. 
And,  when  my  oratory  grew  to  an  end, 
I  bade  them,  that  did  love  their  country's  good. 
Cry — "  God  save  Richard,  England's  royal  king  !" 
Glo.  And  did  they  so  ? 
Buck.  No,  so  God  help  me,  they  spake  not  a 

word; 
But,  like  dumb  statuas,  or  breathless  stones, 
Star'd  on  each  other,  and  look'd  deadly  pale. 
Which  when  I  saw,  I  reprehended  them ; 
And  ask'd  the  mayor,   what  meant  this  wilful 

silence  : 
His  answer  was, — the  people  were  not  us'd 
To  be  spoke  to,  but  by  the  recorder. 
Then  he  was  urg'd  to  tell  my  tale  again ; — 
"  Thus  saith  the  duke,  thus  hath  the  duke  inferr'd ;" 
But  nothing  spoke  in  warrant  from  himself. 
When  he  had  done,  some  followers  of  mine  own. 
At  lower  end  o'  the  hall,  hurl'd  up  their  caps, 
And    some   ten    voices   cried,    "  God    save   king 

Richard  !" 
And  thus  I  took  the  vantage  of  those  few, 
"Thanks,  gentle  citizens,  and  friends,"  quoth  I; 
"  This  general  applause;  and  cheerful  shout, 
Argues  your  wisdom,  and  your  love  to  Richard :" 
And  even  here  brake  off,  and  came  away. 

Glo.  What  tongueless  blocks  were  they  1  Would 

they  not  speak  ? 
Will  not  the  mayor  then,  and  his  brethren,  come  ? 
Buck.  The  mayor  is  here  at  hand  ;  intend  some 

fear ; 
Be  not  you  spoke  with,  but  by  mighty  suit : 
And  look  you  get  a  prayer-book  in  your  hand. 
And  stand  between   two  churchmen,   good  my 

lord ; 
For  on  that  ground  I  '11  make  a  holy  descant ; 
And  be  not  easily  won  to  our  requests ; 
Play  the  maid's  part,  still  answer  nay,  and  take  it. 
Glo.  I  go :  And  if  you  plead  as  well  for  them. 
As  I  can  say  nay  to  thee  for  myself, 
No  doubt  we  '11  bring  it  to  a  happy  issue. 

Buck.  Go,  go,  up  to  the  leads ;  the  lord  mayoi 

knocks.  [Exit  Glo, 

1027 


ACT    HI. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


8CKNK    ril. 


Enter  the  Lord  Mayor,  Aldermen,  and  Citizens. 

Welcome,  my  lord  :  I  dance  attendance  here ; 
I  think,  the  duke  will  not  be  spoke  withal. — 

Enter ^  from  the  Castle,  Catesby. 

N^ow,  Catesby !  what  says  your  lord  to  my  request? 

Gate.    He  doth  entreat  your  grace,  ray  noble 
lord, 
To  visit  him  to-morrow,  or  next  day. 
He  is  within,  with  two  right  reverend  fathers, 
Divinely  bent  to  meditation  ; 
And  in  no  worldly  suit  would  he  be  mov'd. 
To  draw  him  from  his  holy  exercise. 

Buck.  Return,  good   Catesby,  to   the  gracious 
duke ; 
Tell  him,  myself,  the  mayor  and  aldermen, 
In  deep  designs,  in  matter  of  great  moment, 
No  less  importing  than  our  general  good, 
Are  come  to  have  some  conference  with  his  grace. 

Cate.  I  '11  signify  so  much  unto  him  straight. 

[Exit. 

Buck.  Ah,  ha,  my  lord,  this  prince  is  not  an 
Edward  ! 
He  is  not  lolling  on  a  lewd  day-bed. 
But  on  his  knees  at  meditation  ; 
Not  dallying  with  a  brace  of  courtezans, 
But  meditating  with  two  deep  divines  ; 
Not  sleeping,  to  engross  his  idle  body. 
But  praying,  to  enrich  his  watchful  soul : 
Happy  were  England,  would  this  virtuous  prince 
Take  on  himself  the  sovereignty  thereof: 
But,  sore,  I  fear,  we  shall  ne'er  win  him  to  it. 

May.  Marry,  God  defend,  his  grace  should  say 
us  nay  1'^ 

Buck.    I  fear,   he  will :    Here   Catesby  comes 


Re-enter  Catesby. 

Now,  Catesby,  what  says  his  grace  ? 

Gate.    He  wonders  to  what  end  you  have  as- 
sembled 
Such  troops  of  citizens  to  come  to  him. 
His  grace  not  being  warn'd  thereof  before. 
He  fears,  my  lord,  you  mean  no  good  to  him. 

Rack.  Sorry  I  am,  my  noble  cousin  should 
Suspect  me,  that  I  mean  no  good  to  him  : 
Ijy  heaven,  we  como  to  him  in  perfect  love, 
And  so  once  more  return  and  tell  his  grace. 

[Exit  Cate. 
When  holy  and  devout  religious  men 

1028 


Are  at  their  beads,  't  is  hard  to  draw  them  thence : 
So  sweet  is  zealous  contemplation. 

Enter  Gloster,  in  a  Gallery  above,  between  Twa 
Bishops.     Catesby  returns. 

May.  See,  where  his  grace  stands  'tween  two 
clergymen ! 

Buck.  Two  props  of  virtue  for  a  Christian  prince, 
To  stay  him  from  the  fall  of  vanity  : 
And,  see,  a  book  of  prayer  in  his  hand ; 
True  ornaments  to  know  a  holy  man. — 
Famous  Plantagenet,  most  gracious  prince, 
Lend  favourable  ear  to  our  requests ; 
And  pardon  us  the  interruption 
Of  thy  devotion,  and  right  Christian  zeal. 

Glo.  My  lord,  there  needs  no  such  apology ; 
I  rather  do  beseech  you  pardon  me, 
Who,  earnest  in  the  service  of  my  God, 
Neglect  the  visitation  of  my  friends. 
But,  leaving  this,  what  is  your  grace's  pleasure? 

Buck.  Even  that,  I  hope,  which  pleaseth  God 
above. 
And  all  good  men  of  this  ungoveru'd  isle. 

Glo.  I  do  suspect,  I  have  done  some  offence, 
That  seems  disgracious  in  the  city's  eye ; 
And  that  you  come  to  reprehend  my  ignorance. 

Buck.    You  have,  my  lord  :  Would  it  might 
please  your  grace, 
On  our  entreaties  to  amend  your  fault ! 

Glo.    Else  wherefore   breathe  I  in  a  Cliristian 
land? 

Buck.    Know,  then,  it  is  your  fault,  that  yon 
resign 
The  supreme  seat,  the  throne  majestical, 
The  sceptred  office  of  your  ancestors, 
Your  state  of  fortune,  and  your  due  of  birth, 
The  lineal  glory  of  your  royal  house, 
To  the  corruption  of  a  blemish'd  stock : 
Whilst,  in  the  mildness  of  your  sleepy  thoughts. 
(Which  here  we  waken  to  our  country's  good,) 
The  noble  isle  doth  want  her  proper  limbs ; 
Her  face  defac'd  with  scars  of  infamy. 
Her  royal  stock  graft  with  ignoble  plants. 
And  almost  shoulder'd  in  the  swallowing  gulf 
Of  dark  forgetfulness  and  deep  oblivion. 
Which  to  recure,  we  heartily  solicit 
Your  gracious  self  to  take  on  you  the  chaigv. 
And  kingly  government  of  this  your  land : 
Not  as  protector,  steward,  substitute, 
Or  lowly  factor  for  another's  gain ; 
But  as  successively,  from  blood  to  blooJ, 
Your  right  of  birth,  your  empery,  your  o*u. 


ACT    III. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


8CBNE   vn. 


For  this,  cciiswrted  with  the  citizens, 
Your  very  worshipful  and  loving  friends, 
And  by  their  vehement  instigation, 
In  this  just  suit  come  I  to  move  your  grace. 

Qlo.  I  cannot  tell,  if  to  depart  in  silence, 
Or  bitterly  to  speak  in  your  reproof. 
Best  fitteth  my  degree,  or  your  condition  : 
If,  not  to  answer, — you  might  haply  think, 
Tongue-tied  ambition,  not  replying,  yielded 
To  bear  the  golden  yoke  of  sovereignty. 
Which  fondly  yoa  would  here  impose  on  me; 
If  to  reprove  you  for  this  suit  of  yours. 
So  season'd  with  your  faithful  love  to  me, 
Then,  on  the  other  side,  I  check'd  my  friends. 
Therefore, — to  speak,  and  to  avoid  the  first ; 
And  then,  in  speaking,  not  to  incur  the  last, — 
Definitively  thus  I  answer  you. 
Your  love  deserves  my  thanks ;  but  my  desert 
Unmeritable,  shuns  your  high  request. 
First,  if  all  obstacles  were  cut  away, 
And  that  my  path  were  even  to  the  crown, 
As  the  ripe  revenue  and  due  of  birth  ; 
Yet  so  much  is  my  poverty  of  spirit. 
So  mighty,  and  so  many,  my  defects, 
Tliat  I  would  rather  hide  me  from  my  greatness, — 
Being  a  bark  to  brook  no  mighty  sea, — 
Than  in  my  greatness  covet  to  be  hid. 
And  in  the  vapour  of  my  glory  smother'd. 
But,  God  be  thank'd,  there  is  no  need  of  me ; 
(And  mudi  I  need  to  help  you,  if  need  were;) 
Tlie  royal  tree  hath  left  us  royal  fruit. 
Which,  mellow'd  by  the  stealing  hours  of  time. 
Will  well  become  the  seat  of  majesty. 
And  make,  no  doubt,  us  happy  by  his  reign. 
On  him  I  lay  what  you  would  lay  on  me, 
The  right  and  fortune  of  his  happy  stars, — 
Which,  God  defend,  that  I  should  wring  from  him ! 

Buck.  My  lord,  this  argues  conscience  in  your 
grace ; 
But  the  respects  thereof  are  nice  and  trivial, 
All  circumstances  well  considered. 
You  say,  that  Edward  is  your  brother's  son ; 
So  say  we  too,  but  not  by  Edward's  wife : 
For  first  he  was  contract  to  lady  Lucy, 
Your  mother  lives  a  witness  to  his  vow ; 
And  afterwards  by  substitute  betroth'd 
To  Bona,  sister  to  the  king  of  France. 
These  both  put  by,  a  poor  petitioner, 
A  care-craz'd  mother  to  a  many  sons, 
A  beauty-waning  and  distressed  widow, 
Even  in  the  afternoon  of  her  best  days, 
M'  d«  prize  and  purchase  of  his  wanton  eye, 


Seduc'd  the  pitch  and  height  of  all  his  thoughts 

To  base  declension  and  loath'd  bigamy : 

By  her,  in  his  unlawful  bed,  he  got 

This  Edward,  whom  our  manners  call — the  prince 

More  bitterly  could  I  expostulate. 

Save  that,  for  reverence  to  some  alive, 

I  give  a  sparing  limit  to  my  tongue. 

Then,  good  my  lord,  take  to  your  royal  self 

This  profFer'd  benefit  of  dignity  : 

If  not  to  bless  us  and  the  land  withal,  ' 

Yet  to  draw  forth  your  noble  ancestry 

From  the  corruption  of  abusing  time, 

Unto  a  lineal  true-derived  course. 

May.  Do,  good  my  lord  ;  your  citizens  entreat 
you. 

Buck,  Refuse  not,  mighty  lord,  this  profFer'd 
love. 

Cate.  O,  make  them  joyful,  grant  their  lawful 
suit. 

Glo.  Alas,  why  would  you  heap  those  cares  on 
me? 
I  am  unfit  for  state  and  majesty  : — 
I  do  beseech  you,  take  it  not  amiss ; 
I  cannot,  nor  I  will  not,  yield  to  you. 

Buck.  If  you  refuse  it, — as  in  love  and  zeal, 
Loath  to  depose  the  child,  your  brother's  son ; 
As  well  we  know  your  tenderness  of  heart. 
And  gentle,  kind,  effeminate  remorse. 
Which  we  have  noted  in  you  to  your  kindred. 
And  equally,  indeed,  to  all  estates, — 
Yet  know,  whe'r  you  accept  our  suit  or  no. 
Your  brother's  son  shall  never  reign  our  king; 
But  we  will  plant  some  other  in  your  throne, 
To  the  disgrace  and  downfal  of  your  house. 
And,  in  this  resolution,  here  we  leave  you ; — 
Zounds,  citizens,  we  will  eatreat  no  more. 

Glo.  O  !  do  not  swear,  my  lord  of  Buckingham. 
[^Exeunt  Buck,  and  Citizens. 

Cate.  Call  them  again,  sweet  prince,  accept  theii 
suit; 
If  you  deny  them,  all  the  land  will  rue  it. 

Glo.  Will  you  enforce  me  to  a  world  of  cares  ? 
Well,  call  them  again ;  I  am  not  made  of  stone. 
But  penetrable  to  your  kind  entreaties, 

[Exit  Catb 
Albeit  against  my  conscience  and  my  soul. — 

He-enter  Bockingham,  and  the  Mest. 

Cousin  of  Buckingham, — and  sage,  grave  men,— 
Since  you  will  buckle  fortune  on  my  back, 
To  bear  her  burden,  whe'r  I  will,  or  no, 
I  must  have  patience  to  endure  the  load 

1029 


ACT  IV. 


KING  RICUARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    1. 


But  if  black  scandal,  or  foul-fac'd  reproach, 

All.  Amen. 

Attend  the  sequel  of  your  imposition, 

Buck.  To-morrow   may   it  please  you   to  be 

Vour  mere  enforcement  shall  acquittance  me 

crown'd  ? 

From  all  the  impure  blots  and  stains  thereof; 

Glo.  Even  when  you  please,  since  you  will  have 

For  Ood  be  knows,  and  you  may  partly  see, 

it  so. 

How  far  I  am  from  the  desire  of  this. 

Buck.  To-morrow  then  we  will    attend   your 

May.  God  bless  your  grace !  we  see  it,  and  will 

grace ; 

say  it. 

And  so,  most  joyfully,  we  take  our  ieave. 

Glo.  In  saying  so,  you  shall  but  say  the  truth. 

Glo.  Come,  let  us  to  our  holy  work  again  : — 

Buck.  Then    I    salute   you    with    this    royal 

[To  the  Bishops. 

title, — 

Farewell,  good  cousin ; — farewell,  gentle  friends. 

Long  live  king  Richard,  England's  worthy  king ! 

[Exeunt. 

ACT   IV. 


SCENE  I.— Before  the  Tower. 

Enter,  on  one  side,  Queen  Elizabeth,  Duchess 
OF  York,  and  Marquis  of  Dorset;  on' the 
other,  Anne,  Duchess  of  Gloster,  leading 
Lady  Margaret  Plantagenet,  Clarence's 
young  daughter. 

Duch.  Who  meets  us  here? — my  niece  Plan- 
tagenet, 
Led  in  the  hand  of  her  kind  aunt  of  Gloster? 
Now,  for  my  life,  she  's  wandering  to  the  Tower, 
On  pure  heart's  love,  to  greet  the  tender  prince. — 
Daughter,  well  met. 

Anne.  God  give  your  graces  both 

A  happy  and  a  joyful  time  of  day  1 

Q.  Eliz.  As  much  to  you,  good  sister !  Whither 

away  ? 
Anne.  No  further  than  the  Tower ;  and,  as  I 
guess, 
Upon  the  like  devotion  as  yourselves, 
To  gratulate  the  gentle  princes  there. 

Q.  Eliz.  Kind  sister,  thanks ;  we  '11  enter  all  to- 
gether : 

Enter  Brakenbury. 

And,  in  good  time,  here  the  lieutenant  comes. — 
Master  lieutenant,  pray  you,  by  your  leave. 
How  doth  the  prince,  and  my  young  son  of  York  ? 
Brak.  Right  well,  dear  madam  :  By  your  pa- 
tience, 
I  may  not  suffer  you  to  visit  them ; 
The  king  hath  strictly  charg'd  the  contrary. 


Q.  Eliz.  The  king !  who  's  that  ? 
Brak.  I  mean,  the  lord  protector. 

Q.  Eliz.  The  Lord  protect  him  from  that  kingly 
title  ! 
Hath  he  set  bounds  between  their  love,  and  me  ? 
I  am  their  mother,  who  shall  bar  me  from  them  ? 
Duch.  I  am  their  father's  mother,  I  will  see 

them. 
Anne.  Their  aunt  I  am  in  law,  in  love  theii 
mother : 
Then  bring  me  to  their  sights  ;  I  '11  bear  thy  blame, 
And  take  thy  office  from  thee,  on  thy  peril. 

Brak.  No,  madam,  no,  I  may  not  leave  it  so ; 
I  am  bound  by  oath,  and  therefore  pardon  me. 

[Exit  Brak. 

Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.  Let  me  but  meet  you,  ladies,  one  hour 
hence, 
And  I  '11  salute  your  grace  of  York  as  mother, 
And  reverend  looker-on  of  two  fair  queens. — 
Come,  madam,  you  must  straight  to  Westminster. 

[To  the  Duch, 
There  to  be  crowned  Richard's  royal  queen. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  cut  my  lace  asunder  ! 
That  my  pent  heart  may  have  some  scope  to  beat. 
Or  else  I  swoon  with  this  dead-killing  news. 
Anne.  Despiteful  tidings  1  0  unpleasing  news ! 
D&r.   Be  of  good  cheer : — Mother,  how  fares 

your  grace  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  O  Dorset,  speak  not  to  me,  get  the« 
gone, 


ACT   IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


Death  and  destruction  dog  thee  at  the  heels ; 
Thy  mother's  name  is  ominous  to  children  ; 
tf  thou  wilt  outs  jip  death,  go  cross  the  seas, 
And  live  with  Richmond,  from  the  reach  of  hell. 
Go  hie  thee  hie  thee,  from  this  slaughter-house, 
Lest  thou  increase  the  number  of  the  dead  ; 
And  make  me  die  the  thrall  of  Margaret's  curse, — 
Nor  mother,  wife,  nor  England's  counted  queen. 
Stan.  Full   of  wise  care  is  this  your  counsel, 
madam  : — 
Take  all  the  swift  advantage  of  the  hours  ; 
You  shall  have  letters  from  me  to  my  son 
[n  your  behalf,  to  meet  you  on  the  way  : 
Be  not  ta'en  tardy  by  unwise  delay. 

Duck.  O  ill-disporsing  wind  of  misery ! — 
0  my  accursed  womb,  the  bed  of  death  ; 
A  cockatrice  hast  thou  hatch'd  to  the  world, 
Whose  unavoided  eye  is  murderous  ! 

Stan.  Come,  madam,  come  ;  I  in  all  haste  was 

sent. 
Anne.  And  I  with  all  unwillingness  will  go. — 
O,  would  to  God,  that  the  inclusive  verge 
Of  golden  metal,  that  must  round  my  brow, 
Were  red-hot  steel,  to  sear  me  to  the  brain !" 
Anointed  let  me  be  with  deadly  venom ; 
And  die,  ere  men  can  say — God  save  the  queen  ! 
Q.  Eliz.  Go,   go,   poor  soul,   I  envy  not  thy 
glory  ; 
To  feed  my  humour,  wish  thyself  no  harm. 

Anne,  No !  why  ? — When  he,  that  is  my  hus- 
band now. 
Came  to  me,  as  I  foUow'd  Henry's  corse ; 
When  scarce  the  blood  was  well  wash'd  from  his 

hands. 
Which  issu'd  from  my  other  angel  husband. 
And  that  dead  saint  which  then  I  weeping  follow'd; 
O,  when,  I  say,  I  look'd  on  Richard's  face, 
This  was  my  wish, — "  Be  thou,"  quoth  I,  "  ac- 

curs'd. 
For  making  me,  so  young,  so  old  a  widow  ! 
And,  when  thou  wed'st,  let  sorrow  haunt  thy  bed  ; 
And  be  thy  wife  (if  any  be  so  mad) 
More  miserable  by  the  life  of  thee, 
Thaa  thou  hast  made  me  by  my  dear  lord's  death ! ' 
Lo,  ere  I  can  repeat  this  curse  again. 
Even  in  so  short  a  space,  my  woman's  heart 
Grossly  grew  captive  to  his  honey  words. 
And  prov'd  the  subject  of  mine  own  soul's  curse  : 
Which  ever  since  hath  held  mine  eyes  from  rest; 
For  never  yet  one  hour  in  his  bed 
Did  I  enjoy  the  golden  dew  of  sleep, 
But  with  his  timorous  dreams  was  still  awak'd. 


Besides,  he  hates  me  for  my  father  Warwick ; 
And  will,  no  doubt,  shortly  be  rid  of  me. 

Q.  Eliz.  Poor  heart,  adieu ;   I  pity  thy  com- 
plaining. 
Anne.  No  more  than  with  my  soul  I  mourn  for 

yours. 
Dor.  Farewell,  thou  woeful  welcomer  of  glory ! 
AnTie.  Adieu,  poor  soul,  that  tak'st  thy  leave  of 

it! 
Duch.  Go  thou  to  Richmond,  and  good  fortune 
guide  thee  ! —  [To  Dor. 

Go  thou  to  Richard,  and  good  angels  tend  thee ! — 

[To  Anne 
Go  thou  to  sanctuary,  and  good  thoughts  possess 
thee  1  [ToQ,.  Eliz. 

I  to  my  grave,  where  peace  and  rest  lie  with  me ! 
Eighty  odd  years  of  sorrow  have  I  seen. 
And  each  hour's  joy  wreck'd  with  a  week  of  teen." 
Q.  Eliz.  Stay  yet ;  look  back,  with  me,  unto 
the  Tower. — 
Pity,  you  ancient  stones,  those  tender  babes. 
Whom  envy  hath  immur'd  within  your  walls  1 
Rough  cradle  for  such  little  pretty  ones  ! 
Rude  ragged  nurse  1  old  sullen  play-fellow 
For  tender  princes,  use  my  babies  well  1 
So  foolish  sorrow  bids  your  stones  farewell. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  11.—^  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace 

Flourish  of  Trumpets.  Richard,  as  King  upor* 
his  Throne;  Buckingham,  Catesby,  a  Page, 
and  Others. 

K.  Rich.  Stand  all  apart. — Cousin  of  Bucking- 
ham,  

Buck.  My  gracious  sovereign. 
K.  Rich.  Give  me  thy  hand.     Thus  High,  bj 
thy  advice. 
And  thy  assistance,  is  king  Richard  seated  : — 
But  shall  we  wear  these  glories  for  a  day  ? 
Or  shall  they  last,  and  we  rejoice  in  them  ? 
Buck.  Still  live  they,  and  for  ever  let  them  last  1 
K.  Rich.  Ah,  Buckingham,  now  do  I  play  the 
touch. 
To  try  if  thou  be  current  gold,  indeed : — 
Young  Edward  lives : — Think  now  what  I  would 
speak. 
Buck.  Say  on,  my  loving  lord. 
K.  Rich.  Why,  Buckingham,  I  say,  I  would  be 

king. 
Buck.  Why,  so  you  are,  my  thrice-renownea 
liege. 

1081 


ACT    IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


K.Rich.  Ha!  am  I  king?  T  is  so:  but  Ed- 
ward lives. 
Buck.  True,  noble  prince. 
K.  Rich.  O  bitter  consequence, 

That   Edward     still     should    live,  —  true,   noble 


prince 


Cousin,  thou  wast  not  wont  to  be  so  dull : — 
Shall  I  be  plain  ?  I  wish  the  bastards  dead ; 
And  I  would  have  it  suddenly  perform'd. 
What  say'st  thou  now  ?  speak  suddenly,  be  brief. 

Buck.  Your  grace  may  do  your  pleasure. 

K.  Rich.  Tut,  tut,  thou  art  all  ice,  thy  kindness 
freezes : 
Say,  have  I  thy  consent,  that  they  shall  die  ? 

Buck.  Give  me  some  breath,  some  little  pause, 
dear  lord. 
Before  I  positively  speak  in  this  : 
I  will  resolve  your  grace  immediately.  [Exit  Buck. 

Cate.  The  king  is  angry  ;  see,  he  gnaws  his  lip. 

[Aside. 

K.  Rich.  I  will  converse  with  iron-witted  fools, 
[Descends  from  his  Throne. 
And  unrespective  boys  ;  none  are  for  me. 
That  look  into  me  with  considerate  eyes ; — 
High-reaching  Buckingham  grows  circumspect. — 
Boy, 

Page.  My  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Know'st  thou  not  any,  whom  corrupt- 
ing gold 
Would  tempt  unto  a  close  exploit  of  death  ? 

Page.  I  know  a  discontented  gentleman. 
Whose   humble   means  match   not  his  haughty 

mind  : 
Gold  were  as  good  as  twenty  orators. 
And  will,  no  doubt,  tempt  him  to  any  thing. 

K.  Rich.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Page.  His  name,  my  lord,  is — Tyrrel. 

K.  Rich.  I  partly  know  the  man  :  Go,  call  him 
hither,  boy. —  [Exit  Page. 

The  deep-revolving  witty  Buckingham 
No  more  shall  be  the  neighbour  to  my  counsels : 
Hath  he  so  long  held  out  with  me  untir'd, 
And  stops  he  now  for  breath  ? — well,  be  it  so. — 

Enter  Stanley. 

How  now,  lord  Stanley  ?  what 's  the  news  ? 

Stan.  Know,  my  loving  lord, 

The  marquis  Dorset,  as  I  hear,  is  fled 
To  Richmond,  in  the  parts  where  he  abides. 
K.  Rich.    Come  hither,  Catesby  :   rumour  it 
abroad. 
That  Anne,  my  wife,  is  very  grievous  sick  ; 
ins2 


I  will  take  order  for  her  keeping  close. 
Inquire  me  out  some  mean-born  gentleman. 
Whom  I  will  marry  straight  to  Clarence'  daugh- 
ter : — 
The  boy  is  foolish,'^  and  I  fear  not  him. — 
Look,  how  thou  dream'st ! — I  say  again,  give  out, 
That  Anne  my  queen  is  sick,  and  like  to  die : 
About  it ;  for  it  stands  me  much  upon, 
To  stop  all  hopes,  whose  growth  may  damage 
me. —  [Exit  Catk. 

I  must  be  married  to  my  brother's  daughter. 
Or  else  my  kingdom  stands  on  brittle  glass  : — 
Murder  her  brothers,  and  then  marry  her  ! 
Uncertain  way  of  gain  I  But  I  am  in 
So  far  in  blood,  that  sin  will  pluck  on  sin. 
Tear-falling  pity  dwells  not  in  this  eye. — 

Re-enter  Page,  with  Tyrrel. 

Is  thy  name — Tyrrel  ? 

Tyr.    James  Tyrrel,  and  your  most  obedient 

subject. 
K.  Rich.  Art  thou,  indeed  ? 
Tyr.  Prove  me,  my  gracious  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Dar'st  tliou  resolve  to  kill  a  friend  ot 

mine? 
Tyr.    Please   you ;  but  I  had  rather  kill   two 

enemies. 
K.  Rich.  Why,  then   thou   hast  it ;  two  deep 
enemies. 
Foes  to  my  rest,  and  my  sweet  sleep's  disturbers. 
Are  they  that  I  would  have  thee  deal  upon : 
Tyrrel,  I  mean  those  bastards  in  the  Tower. 

Tyr.  Let  me  have  open  means  to  come  to  them, 
And  soon  I  '11  rid  you  from  the  fear  of  them. 
Jl.  Rich.    Thou   sing'st   sweet   music.     Hark, 
come  hither,  Tyi-rel ; 
Go,  by  this  token  ; — Rise,  and  lend  thine  ear : 

[  Whispers. 
There  is  no  more  but  so : — Say,  it  is  done. 
And  I  will  love  thee,  and  prefer  thee  for  it. 

Tyr.  I  will  despatch  it  straight.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Bctckingham. 

Buck.  My  lord,  I  have  consider'd  in  my  mind 
The  late  demand  that  you  did  sound  me  in. 
IT.  Rich.  Well,  let  that  rest.     Dorset  is  fled  to 

Richmond. 
Buck.  I  hear  the  news,  my  lord. 
E.  Rich.  Stanley,  he  is  your  wife's  son : — -Well, 

look  to  it 
Buck.    My  lord,  I  claim  the  gift,  my  due  by 

promise. 


ACT    IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENB    III. 


For  which  your  lionour  and  your  faith  is  pawn'd ; 
The  earldom  of  Hereford,  and  the  movables, 
Which  you  have  promised  I  shall  possess. 

K.  Rich.   Stanley,  look  to  your  wife  ;  if  she 
convej 
Letters  to  Richmond,  you  shall  answer  it. 

Buck.  What  says  your  highness  to  my  just  re- 
quest ? 

K.  Rich.  I  do  remember  me, — Henry  the  Sixth 
Did  prophesy,  that  Richmond  should  be  king, 
When  Richmond  was  a  little  peevish  boy. 
A  king  ! — perhaps 

Buck.  My  lord, 

K.  Rich.  How  chance,  the  prophet  could  not 
at  that  time, 
Have  told  me,  I  being  by,  that  I  should  kill  him? 

Buck.  My  lord,  your  promise  for  the  earldom. — 

K.  Rich.    Richmond  ! — When  last   I  was   at 
Exeter, 
The  mayor  in  courtesy  show'd  me  the  castle. 
And   call'd  it — Rouge-mont :    at  v/hich  name,  I 

started  ; 
Because  a  bard  of  Ireland  told  me  once, 
J  3h-'>uld  not  live  long  after  I  saw  Richmond. 

Buck.  My  lord, 

K.  Rich.  Ay,  what 's  o'clock  ? 

Buck.  I  am  thus  bold 

To  put  your  grace  in  mind  of  what  you  promised 
me. 

K.  Rich.  Well,  but  what  is  't  o'clock  ? 

Buck.  Upon  the  stroke 

Of  ten. 

K.  Rich.  Well,  let  it  strike. 

Buck.  Why,  let  it  strike  ? 

IC.  Rich.  Because  that,  like  a  Jack,  thou  keep'st 
the  stroke 
Betwixt  thy  begging  and  ray  meditation. 
I  am  not  in  the  giving  vein  today. 

Buck.  Why,  then  resolve  me  whe'r  you  will, 
or  no. 

IT.  Rich.  Thou  troublest  me;  I  am  not  in  the 
vein.         [£xeunt  K.  Rich,  and  Train. 

Buck.  And  is  it  thus?  repays  he  my  deep  service 
With  such  contempt?  made  I  him  king  for  this  ? 
0,  let  me  think  on  Hastings ;  and  be  gone 
To  Bifccknock,'"'  while  my  fearful  head  is  on.  '[Exit. 

SCENE  III.— TAc  Same. 
Enter  Tyrrel. 

T'ur.   The  tyrannous  and  bloody  act  is  done; 
The  most  arch  deed  of  piteous  massacre, 


That  ever  yet  this  land  was  guilty  of. 

Dighton,  and  Forrest,  whom  I  did  suborn 

To  do  this  piece  of  ruthless  butchery, 

Albeit  they  were  flesh'd  villains,  bloody  dogs, 

Melting  with  tenderness  and  mild  compassion. 

Wept  like  two  children,  in  their  death's  sad  story 

"  0  thus,"  quoth  Dighton,  "  lay  the  gentle  babes, — " 

"  Tlius,  thus,"  quoth  Forrest,  "girdling  one  anothw 

Within  their  alabaster  innocent  arms  : 

Their  lips  were  four  red  roses  on  a  stalk. 

Which  in  their  summer  beauty,  kiss'd  each  other. 

A  book  of  prayers  on  their  pillow  lay  ; 

Which  once,"  quoth  Forrest,  "almost  chang'd  my 

mind ; 
But,  O,  the  devil" — there  the  villain  stopp'd  ; 
When  Dighton  thus  told  on, — "  we  smothered 
The  most  replenished  sweet  work  of  nature. 
That,  from  the  prime  creation,  e'er  she  fram'd. — " 
Hence  both  are  gone  with  conscience  and  remorse, 
They  could  not  speak;  and  so  I  left  them  both, 
To  bear  this  tidings  to  the  bloody  king. 

Enter  King  Richard. 

And  here  he  comes  : — All  health,  my  sovereign 
lord  ! 
K.  Rich.    Kind  Tyrrel !   am   I  happy  in   thy 

news  ? 
Tyr.    If  to  have  done  the  thing  you  gave  in 
charge 
Beget  your  happiness,  be  happy  then. 
For  it  is  done, 

K.  Rich.         But  didst  thou  see  them  dead  ? 
Tyr.  I  did,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  And  buried,  gentle  Tyrrell 

Tyr.  The  chaplain  of  the  Tower  hath  buried 
them  ; 
But  where,  to  say  the  truth,  I  do  not  know. 
K.  Rich.  Come  to  me,  Tyrrel,  soon,  at  after 
supper. 
When  thou  shalt  tell  the  process  of  their  death. 
Mean  time,  but  think  how  I  may  do  thee  good, 
And  be  inheritor  of  thy  desire. 
Farewell,  till  then. 

Tyr.  I  humbly  take  my  leave.  [Exit. 

K.  Rich.-  The  son  of  Clarence  have  I  pen'd  up 

close ; 

His  daughter  meanly  have  I  match'd  in  marriage; 

The  sons  of  Edward  sleep  in  Abraham's  bosom, 

And  Anne  my  wife   hath   bid    the  world   good 

night. 
Now,  for  I  know  the  Bretagne  Richmond^'  aims 
At  voung  Elizabeth,  my  brother's  daughter, 

1U33 


ACT   IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


n 


scENi  rv. 


And,  by  that  knot,  looks  proudly  on  the  crown, 
To  her  go  I,  a  jolly  thriving  wooer. 

Enter  Gatesby. 

Catc.  My  lord, 

K.  Rich.  Good  news  or  bad,  that  thou  com'st 

in  so  bluntly  ? 
Gate.  Bad   news,  my  lord :   Morton  is  fled  to 
Richmond ; 
And  Buckingham,  back'd  with  the  hardy  Welsh- 
men, 
Is  in  the  field,  and  still  his  power  increaseth. 
K.  Rich.  Ely  with  Richmond  troubles  me  more 
near. 
Than  Buckingham  and  his  rash-levied  strength. 
Come, — I  have  learn'd,  that  fearful  commenting 
Is  leaden  servitor  to  dull  dehiy  ; 
Delay  leads  impotent  and  snail-p;ic'd  beggary  : 
Then  fiery  expedition  be  my  wing, 
Jove's  Mercury,  and  herald  for  a  king ! 
Go,  muster  men  :  My  counsel  is  my  shield  ; 
We  must  be  brief,  when  traitors  brave  the  field. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     Before  the  Palace. 

Enter  Queen  Margaret. 

Q.  Mar.  So,  now  prosperity  begins  to  mellow, 
And  drop  into  the  rotten  mouth  of  death. 
Here  in  these  confines  sliiy  have  I  lurk'd, 
To  watch  the  waning  of  mine  enemies. 
A  dire  induction  am  I  witness  to. 
And  will  to  France  ;  hoping,  the  consequence 
Will  prove  as  bitter,  black,  and  tragical. 
Withdraw  thee,  wretched  Margaret !  who  comes 
here  ? 

Enter  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the  Duchess  of 
York. 

Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  my  poor  princes !  ah,  my  tender 
babes ! 
My  unblown  flowers,  new-appearing  sweets  ! 
If  yet  your  gentle  souls  fly  in  the  air, 
And  be  not  fix'd  in  doom  perpetual, 
Hover  about  me  with  your  airy  wings. 
And  hear  your  mother's  lamentation  ! 

Q.  Mar.  Hover  about  her  ;  say,  that  right  for 
right 
Hath  dimm'd  your  infant  morn  to  aged  night. 

Duch.  So  many  miseries  have  craz'd  my  voice. 
That  my  woe-wearied  tongue  is  still  and  mute, — 
Edward  Plantagenet,  why  art  thou  dead  3 
1084 


Q.  Mar.  Plantagenet  doth  quit  Plantagenet, 
Edward  for  Edward  pays  a  dying  debt. 

Q.  Eliz.  Wilt  thou,  O  God,  fly  from  such  gen 
tie  lambs, 
And  throw  them  in  the  entrails  of  the  wolf? 
When  didst  thou  sleep,  when  such  a  deed  was 
done  ? 
Q.  Mar.  When  holy  Harry  died,  and  my  sweet 

son. 
Duch.  Dead  life,  blind  sight,  poor  mortal-living 
ghost. 
Woe's  scene,  world's  shame,   grave's  due  by  life 

usurp'd, 
Brief  abstract  and  record  of  tedious  days, 
Rest  thy  unrest  on  England's  lawful  earth, 

[Sitting  down. 
Unlawfully  made  drunk  with  innocent  blood  ! 
Q.  Eliz.  Ah,  that  thou  would'st  as  soon  afford  a 
grave. 
As  thou  canst  yield  a  melancholy  seat ; 
Then  would  I  hide  my  bones,  not  rest  them  here! 
Ah,  who  hath  any  cause  to  mourn,  but  we? 

[Sitting  doion  by  h.er 
Q.  Mar.  If  ancient  sorrow  be  most  reverent. 
Give  mine  the  benefit  of  seniory, 
And  let  my  griefs  frown  on  the  upper  hand. 
If  sorrow  can  admit  society, 

[Sitting  dovm  with  them. 
Tell  o'er  your  woes  again  by  viewing  mine  ; — 
I  had  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him  ; 
I  had  a  husband,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him ; 
Thou  hadst  an  Edward,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him; 
Thou  hadst  a  Richard,  till  a  Richard  kill'd  him. 
Duch.  I  had  a  Richard  too,  and  thou  didst  kill 
him : 
I  had  a  Rutland  too,  thou  holp'st  to  kill  him. 
Q.  Mar.  Thou  hadst  a  Clarence  too,  and  Rich- 
ard kill'd  him. 
From  forth  the  kennel  of  thy  womb  hatli  crept 
A  hell-hound,  that  doth  hunt  us  all  to  death  : 
That  dog,  that  had  his  teeth  before  his  eyes, 
To  worry  lambs,  and  lap  their  gentle  blood ; 
That  foul  defacer  of  God's  handy-work ; 
That  excellent  grand  tyrant  of  the  earth. 
That  reigns  in  galled  eyes  of  weeping  souls. 
Thy  womb  let  loose,  to  chase  us  to  our  grav&s. — 
0  upright,  just,  and  true-disposing  God, 
How  do  I  thank  thee,  that  this  carnal  cur 
Preys  on  the  issue  of  his  mother's  body. 
And  makes  her  pew-fellow  with  others'  moan  I 

Duch.  O,  Harry's  wife,  triumph  not  in  my  wc-ea 
God  witness  with  me,  I  have  wept  for  thiiio. 


ACT   IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENK    IV. 


Q.  Mar,  Bear  with  me ;  I  am  hungry  for  re- 
venge, 
And  now  I  cloy  me  with  beholding  it. 
Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  that  kili'd  my  Edward  ; 
Thy  other  Edward  dead,  to  quit  my  Edward; 
Young  York  he  is  but  boot,  because  both  they 
Match  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  loss. 
Thy  Olarence  he  is  dead,  that  stabb'd  my  Edward  ; 
And  the  beholders  of  this  tragic  play, 
The  adulterate  Hastings,  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey, 
Untimely  smother'd  in  their  dusky  graves. 
Richard  yet  lives,  hell's  black  intelligencer ; 
Only  reserv'd  their  factor,  to  buy  souls, 
And  send  them  thither :  But  at  hand,  at  hand, 
Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end  : 
Earth  gapes,  hell  burns,  fiends  roar,  saints  pray. 
To  have  him  suddenly  convey'd  from  hence  : — 
Cancel  his  bond  of  life,  dear  God,  I  pray. 
That  I  may  live  to  say.  The  dog  is  dead ! 

Q.  Eliz.  O,  thou  didst  prophesy  the  time  would 
come. 
That  I  should  wish  for  thee  to  help  me  curse 
That  bottled  spider,  that  foul  bunch-back'd  toad. 
Q.  Mar.  I  call'd  thee  then,  vain  flourish  of  my 
fortune ; 
I  call'd  thee  then,  poor  shadow,  painted  queen  ; 
The  presentation  of  but  what  I  was. 
The  flattering  index  of  a  direful  pageant. 
One  heav'd  a  high,  to  be  hurl'd  down  below  : 
A  mother  only  mock'd  with  two  fair  babes  ; 
A  dream  of  what  thou  wast ;  a  garish  flag. 
To  be  the  aim  of  every  dangerou^^  shot; 
A  sign  of  dignity,  a  breath,  a  bubble ; 
A  queen  in  jest,  only  to  fill  the  scene. 
Where  is  thy  husband  now  ?  where  be  thy  bro- 
thers ? 
Where  be  thy  two  sons  ?  wherein  dost  thou  joy  ? 
Who  sues,  and  kneels,  and  says — God  save  the 

queen  ? 
Where  be  the  bending  peers  that  flatter'd  thee? 
Where  be  the  thronging  troops  that  follow'd  thee? 
Decline  all  this,''^  and  see  what  noiv  thou  art. 
For  happy  wife,  a  most  distressed  widow  ; 
For  joyful  mother,  one  that  wails  the  name  : 
For  one  being  sued  to,  one  that  humbly  sues ! 
For  queen,  a  very  caitifi"  crown'd  with  care : 
For  one  that  scorn'd  at  rae,  now  scorn'd  of  me ; 
For  one  being  fear'd  of  all,  now  fearing  one  ; 
For  one  commanding  all,  obey'd  of  none. 
Thus  hath  the  course  of  justice  wheel'd  about. 
And  left  thee  but  a  very  prey  to  time ; 
Having  uo  more  but  thought  of  what  thou  wert, 


To  torture  thee  the  more,  being  what  thou  art. 
Thou  didst  usurp  my  place.  And  dost  thou  not 
Usurp  the  just  proportion  of  my  sorrow  ? 
Now  thy  proud  neck  bears  half  my  burden 'd  yoke 
From  which  even  here  I  slip  my  wearied  head. 
And  leave  the  burden  of  it  all  on  thee. 
Farewell,   York's  wife, — and  queen  of  sad  mis- 
chance,— 
These  English  woes  shall  maice  me  smile  in  France. 
Q.  Eliz.  0  thou  well  skill'd  in  curses,  stay  a 
while. 
And  teach  me  how  to  curse  mine  enemies. 

Q.  Mar.  Forbear  to  sleep  the  night,  and  fast 
the  day ; 
Compare  dead  happiness  with  living  woe; 
Think  that  thy  babes  were  fairer  than  they  were. 
And  he,  that  slew  them,  fouler  than  he  is  : 
Bettering  thy  loss  makes  the  bad-causer  worse; 
Revolving  this  will  teach  thee  how  to  curse. 
Q.  Miz.  My  words  are  dull,  O,  quicken  them 

with  thine ! 
Q.  Mar.  Thy  woes  will  make  them  sharp,  and 
pierce  like  mine.  [Uxit  Q.  Mar. 

Dnch.  Why  should  calamity  be  full  of  words  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  Windy  attorneys  to  their  client  woes. 
Airy  succeeders  of  intestate  joys. 
Poor  breathing  orators  of  miseries  ! 
Let  them  have  scope :  though  what  they  do  im- 
part 
Help  nothing  else,  yet  do  they  ease  the  heart. 
iJuch.  If  so,  then  be  not  tongue-ty'd  :  go  with 
me. 
And  in  the  breath  of  bitter  words  let 's  smother 
My  damned  son,  that  thy  two  sweet  sons  smother'd. 

IJDrum,  within. 
I  hear  his  drum, — be  copious  in  exclaims. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  his  Train,  marching. 

K.  Rich.  Who  intercepts  me  in  my  expedition? 
Duch.  0,  she,  that  might  have  intercepted  thee. 
By  strangling  thee  in  her  accursed  womb, 
From  all  the  slaughters,  wretch,  that  thou  hast 
done. 
Q.  Eliz.    Hid'st   thou    that  forehead   with   a 
golden  crown, 
Where  should  be  branded,  if  that  right  were  right. 
The  slaughter  of  the  prince  that  ow'd  that  crown, 
And  the  dire  death  of  ray  poor  sons,  and  brothers  ? 
Tell  me,  thou  villain-slave,  where  are  my  children  \ 
Duch.  Thou  toad,  thou  toad,  where  is  thy  bro- 
ther Clarence  ? 
And  little  Ned  Plantagenet,  his  son  ? 

1085 


ACT   IV. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


Q.  Eliz.  Where  is  the  gentle  Rivers,  Vaughan, 

Grey  ? 
Duck.  Where  is  kind  Hastings  ? 
K.  Rich.  A  flouiish,  trumpets! — strike  alarum, 
drums  1 
Let  not  the  heavens  hear  these  tell-tale  women 
Rail  on  the  Lord's  anointed  :  Strike,  I  say. — 

[Flourish.     Alarums. 
Either  he  patient,  and  entreat  me  fair, 
Or  with  the  clamorous  report  of  war 
Thus  will  I  drown  your  exclamations. 
Duch.  Art  thou  my  son  ? 
K.  Rich.    Ay  ;  I  thank  God,  my  father,  and 

yourself. 
Duch.  Then  patiently  hear  my  impatience. 
K.  Rich.  Madam,  I  have  a  touch  of  your  con- 
dition, 
That  cannot  brook  the  accent  of  reproof. 
Duch.  0,  let  me  speak. 

K.  Rich.  Do,  then  ;  but  I  '11  not  hear. 

Duch.  I  will  be  mild  and  gentle  in  my  words. 
K.  Rich.  And  brief,  good  mother ;  for  I  am  in 

haste. 
Duch.  Art  thou  so  hasty  ?  I  have  staid  for  thee, 
God  knows,  in  torment  and  in  agony. 

K.  Rich.  And  came  I  not  at  last  to  comfort 

you  ? 
Duch.  No,  by  the  holy  rood,  thou  know'st  it  well, 
Thou  cam'st  on  earth  to  make  the  earth  my  hell. 
A  grievous  burden  was  thy  birth  to  me  ; 
Tetchy  and  wayward  was  thy  infancy; 
Thy  school-days,   frightful,    desperate,   wild,   and 

furious  ; 
Thy  prime  of  manhood,  daring,   bold,  and  ven- 
turous ; 
Thy  age  contirm'd,  proud,  subtle,  sly,  and  bloody. 
More  mild,  but  yet  more  harmful,  kind  in  hatred  : 
What  comfortable  hour  canst  thou  name, 
That  ever  grac'd  me  in  thy  company  ? 

K.  Rick.  'Faith,  none  but  Hunjphrey  Hour,'" 
that  call'd  your  grace 
To  breakfast  once,  forth  of  my  company. 
If  I  be  so  disgracious  in  your  sight. 
Let  me  march  on,  and  not  otfend  you,  madam. — 
Strike  up  the  drum. 

Duck.  I  pr'ythee,  hear  me  speak. 

K.  Rich.  You  speak  too  bitterly. 
Duch .  Hear  me  a  word  ; 

For  1  shall  never  speak  to  thee  again. 
A".  Rich.  So. 

Duch    Either  thou  wilt  die,  by  God's  just  ordi- 
nance, 
1036 


Ere  from  this  war  thou  turn  a  conqueror ; 
Or  I  with  grief  and  extreme  age  shall  perish, 
And  never  look  upon  thy  face  again. 
Therefore,  take  with  thee  my  most  heavy  curse ; 
Which,  in  the  day  of  battle,  tire  thee  more. 
Than  all  the  complete  armour  that  thou  wear'st  I 
My  prayers  on  the  adverse  party  fight ; 
And  there  the  little  souls  of  Edward's  children 
Whisper  the  spirits  of  thine  enemies. 
And  promise  them  success  and  victory. 
Bloody  thou  art,  bloody  will  be  thy  end ; 
Shame  serves  thy  life,  and  doth  thy  death  attend. 

{Exit 

Q.  EUz.  Though  far  more  cause,  yet  much  less 

spirit  to  curse 

Abides  in  me  ;  I  say  amen  to  her,  \Going. 

K,  Rick.  Stay,  madam,  I  must  speak  a  word 

with  you. 
Q.  EUz.    I  have  no  more  sons  of  the  royal 
blood. 
For  thee  to  murder.:  for  my  daughters,  Richard, — 
They  shall  be  praying  nuns,  not  weeping  queens  • 
And  therefore  level  not  to  hit  their  lives. 

K.  Rick.  You  have  a  daughter  call'd — Elizabeth 
Virtuous  and  fair,  royal  and  gracious. 

Q.  EUz.  And  must  she  die  for  this  ?  O,  let  her 
live. 
And  I  '11  corrupt  her  manners,  stain  her  beauty, 
Slander  myself,  as  false  to  Edward's  bed; 
Throw  over  her  the  veil  of  infamy  : 
So  she  may  live  unscarr'd  of  bleeding  slaughter, 
I  will  confess  she  was  not  Edward's  daughter. 
K.  Rich.  Wrong  not  her  birth,  she  is  of  royal 

blood. 
Q.  EUz.  To  save  her  life,  I  '11  say — she  is  not  s»o. 
K.  Rich.  Htr  life  is  safest  only  in  her  birth. 
Q.  EUz.    And   only  in   that   safety  died  her 

brothers. 
K.  Rick.  Lo,  at  their  births  good  stars  were 

opposite. 
Q.  EUz.    No,  to  their  lives  bad  friends  were 

contrary. 
K.  Rick.  All  unavoided  is  the  doom  of  destiny. 
Q.  EUz.    True,    when   avoided   grace   makes 
destiny  : 
My  babes  were  destin'd  to  a  fairer  death, 
If  grace  had  bless'd  thee  with  a  fairer  life. 

K.  Rich.  Y'"ou  speak,  as  if  that  I  had  slain  my 

cousins. 
Q.  EUz.   Cousins,  indeed ;  and  by  their  uncle 
cozen 'd 
Of  comfort,  kingdom,  kindred,  fit^jdoiu,  Jifa 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THHtD. 


SCENE    IV. 


Whose  hands  soever  lanc'cl  their  tender  hearts, 

Thy  head,  all  indirectly,  gave  direction  : 

No  doubt  the  murderous  knife  was  dull  and  blunt. 

Till  it  was  whetted  on  thy  stone-hard  heart 

To  revel  in  the  entrails  of  my  lambs. 

But  that  still  use  of  grief  makes  wild  grief  tame, 

My  tongue   should    to    thy   ears   not   name  my 

boys, 
Till  that  ray  nails  were  anchor'd  in  thine  eyes; 
And  I,  in  such  a  desperate  bay  of  death, 
Like  a  poor  bark,  of  sails  and  tackling  reft, 
Rush  f.ll  to  pieces  on  th}'^  rocky  bosora. 

K.  Rich.  Madam,  so  thrive  I  in  ray  enterprise. 
And  dangerous  success  of  bloody  wars, 
As  I  intend  more  good  to  you  and  yours, 
Than  ever  you  or  yours  by  me  were  harm'd  ! 
Q.  Eliz.  What  good  is  cover'd  with  the  face  of 
heaven. 
To  be  discover'd,  that  can  do  rae  good  ? 

K.  Rich.  The  advancement  of  your  children, 

gentle  lady. 
Q.  Eliz.  Up  to  some  scaffold,  there  to  lose  their 

heads  ? 
K.  Rich.    N'o,   to   the  dignity   and   height  of 
fortune, 
The  high  imperial  type  of  this  earth's  glory. 

Q.  Eliz.  Flatter  my  sorrows  with  report  of  it ; 
Tell  me,  what  state,  what  dignity,  what  honour, 
(.'anst  thou  demise  to  any  child  of  mine  ? 

K.  Rich.    Even    all   I  have  ;    ay,  and  rayself 
and  all, 
Will  I  withal  endow  a  child  of  thine; 
So  in  the  Lethe  of  thy  angry  soul 
Thou  drown  the  sad  remembrance  of  those  wrongs, 
Which,  thou  supposest,  I  have  done  to  thee. 
Q.  Eliz.  Be  brief,  lest  that  the  process  of  thy 
kindness 
Last  longer  telling  than  thy  kindness'  date. 

K.  Rich.  Then  know,  that  from  my  soul,  I  love 

thy  daughter. 
Q.  Eliz.  My  daughter's  mother  thinks  it  with 

her  soul. 
K.  Rich.  What  do  you  think  ? 
Q.  Eliz.  That   thou    dost  love  my  daughter, 
from  thy  soul : 
So    from    thy  soul's   love,  didst   thou    love   her 

brothers  ; 
And,  from  my  heart's  love,  I  do  thank  thee  for  it. 
K.  Rich     Be  not  so  hasty  to  confound   nay 
meaning : 
I  mean,  that  with  my  soul  I  love  thy  daugliter, 
And  do  intend  to  make  her  queen  of  England. 


Q.  Eliz.  Well  then,  who  dost  thou  rat  in  shall 
be  her  king  ? 

K.Rich.  Even  he,  that  makes  her  queen  :  Who 
else  should  be  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  What,  thou  ? 

K.  Rich.  Even  so :  What  think  you 

of  it,  madam  ? 

Q.  Eliz.  How  canst  thou  woo  her  'i 

K.  Rich.  That  I  would  learn  of  you, 

As  one  being  best  acquainted  with  her  humour. 

Q.  Eliz.  And  wilt  thou  learn  of  me  ? 

K.  Rich.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart. 

Q.  Eliz.  Send  to  her,  by  the  man  that  slew  her 
brothers, 
A  pair  of  bleeding  hearts  ;  th6reon  engrave, 
Edward,  and  York;  then,  haply,  will  she  weep  : 
Therefore  present  to  her, — as  sometirae  Margaret 
Did  to  thy  father,  steep'd  in  Rutland's  blood, — 
A  handkerchief;  which,  say  to  her,  did  drain 
The  purple  sap  from  her  sweet  brother's  body, 
And  bid  her  wipe  her  weeping  eyes  withal. 
If  this  inducement  move  her  not  to  love, 
Send  her  a  letter  of  thy  noble  deeds  ; 
Tell  her,  thou  mad'st  away  her  uncle  Clarence, 
Her  uncle  Rivers;  ay,  and,  for  her  sake, 
Mad'st   quick   conveyance  with   her   good   autt 
Anne. 

K.  Rich.    You  mock  me,  madam  ;  this  is  not 
the  way 
To  win  your  daughter. 

Q.  Eliz.  There  is  no  other  way ; 

Unless  thou  could'st  put  on  some  other  shape. 
And  not  be  Richard  that  hath  done  all  this. 

K.  Rich.  Say,  that  I  did  all  this  for  love  of  her? 

Q.  Eliz,  Nay,  then  indeed,  she  cannot  chooso 
but  have  thee, 
Having  bought  love  with  such  a  bloody  spoil. 

K.  Rich.  Look,  what  is  done  cannot  be  nov 
amended  : 
Men  shall  deal  unadvisedly  sometimes, 
Which  after-hours  give  leisure  to  repent. 
If  I  did  take  the  kingdom  from  your  sons. 
To  make  amends,  I  '11  give  it  to  your  daughter. 
If  I  have  kill'd  the  issue  of  your  womb. 
To  quicken  your  increase,  I  will  beget 
Mine  issue  of  your  blood  upon  your  daughter. 
A  gi-andara's  name  is  little  less  in  love. 
Than  is  the  doting  title  of  a  mother  ; 
They  are  as  children,  but  one  step  below, 
Even  of  your  mettle,  of  your  very  blood  ; 
Of  all  one  pain, — save  for  a  night  of  groans 
Endur'd  of  her,  for  whom  you  bid  like  sorrow. 

1087 


ACT  IV.                                    KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD.                                  scene  r». 

Your  children  were  vexation  to  your  youth, 

K.  Rich.  Say,  I  will  love  her  everlastingly. 

But  mine  shall  be  a  comfort  to  your  age. 

Q.  Eliz.   But  how  long  shall  that  title,  ever, 

The  loss,  you  have,  is  but — a  son  being  king. 

last? 

And,  by  that  loss,  your  daughter  is  made  queen. 

K.  Rich.    Sweetly  in  force  unto  her  fair  life's 

I  cannot  make  you  what  amends  I  would. 

end. 

Therefore  accept  such  kindness  as  I  can. 

Q.  Eliz.   But  how  long  fairly  shall  her  sweet 

Dorset,  your  son,  that,  with  a  fearful  soul. 

life  last  2 

Treads  discontented  steps  in  foreign  soil. 

K.  Rich.  As  long  as  heaven,  and  nature,  length- 

This fair  alliance  quickly  shall  call  home 

ens  it. 

To  high  promotions  and  great  dignity  : 

Q.  Eliz.  As  long  as  hell,  and  Richard,  likes  of  it. 

The  king,  that  calls  your  beauteous  daughter — 

K.  Rich.  Say,  I,  her  sov'reign,  am  her  subject 

wife. 

low. 

Familiarly  shall  call  thy  Dorset — brother; 

Q.  Eliz,    But  she,  your  subject,  loaths  such 

Again  shall  you  be  mother  to  a  king, 

sov'reignty. 

And  all  the  ruins  of  distressful  times 

K.  Rich.  Be  eloquent  in  my  behalf  to  her. 

Repair'd  with  double  riches  of  content. 

Q.  Eliz.    An  honest  tale  speeds   best,  being 

What !  we  have  many  goodly  days  to  see  : 

plainly  told. 

The  liquid  drops  of  tears  that  you  have  shed. 

K.  Rich.  Then,  in  plain  terms  tell  her  my  lov- 

Shall come  again,  transform'd  to  orient  pearl ; 

ing  tale. 

Advantaging  their  loan,  with  interest 

Q.  Eliz.  Plain,  and  not  honest,  is  too  harsh  a 

Of  ten-tiraes-doublei  gain  of  happiness. 

style. 

Go  then,  niiy  mother,  to  thy  daughter  go  ; 

K.  Rich.  Your  reasons  are  too  shallow  and  too 

Make    bold    her   bashful    years    with    your   ex- 

quick. 

perience  ; 

Q.  Eliz.    0,  no,  my  reasons  are  too  deep  and 

Prepare  her  ears  to  hear  a  wooer's  tale  ; 

dead ; — 

Pnt  in  her  tender  heart  the  aspiring  flame 

Too  deep  and  dead,  poor  infants,  in  their  graves. 

Of  golden  sov'reignty  ;  acauaint  the  princess 

K.  Rich.  Harp  not  on  that  string,  madam ;  that 

With  the  sweet  silent  houii  of  marriage  joys : 

is  past. 

And  when  this  arm  of  naine  hath  chastised 

Q.  Eliz,   Harp  on  it  still  shall  I ,  till  heart- 

The petty  rebel,  dull-brain'd  Buckingham, 

strings  break. 

Bound  with  triumphant  garlands  will  I  come. 

K.  Rich.  Now,  by  my  George,  my  garter,  and 

And  lead  tliy  daughter  to  a  conqueror's  bed ; 

ray  crown, — 

To  whom  I  will  retail  my  conquest  won, 

Q.  Eliz.  Profan'd,  dishonour'd,  and  the  third 

And  she  shall  be  sole  victress,  Caesar's  Caesar. 

usurp'd. 

Q.  Miz.  What  were  I  best  to  say  ?  her  father's 

K.  Rich.  I  swear. 

brother 

Q.  Eliz.           By  nothing ;  for  this  is  no  oath. 

Would  be  her  lord  ?     Or  shall  I  say,  her  uncle  ? 

Thy  George,  profan'd,  hath  lost  his  holy  honour ; 

Or,  he  that  slew  her  brothers,  and  her  uncles  ? 

Thy  garter,  blemish'd,  pawn'd  his  knightly  virtue ; 

Under  what  title  shall  I  woo  for-  thee. 

Thy  crown,  usurp'd,  disgrac'd  his  kingly  glory  : 

That  God,  the  law,  my  honour,  and  her  love. 

If  something  thou  would'st  swear  to  be  believ'd. 

Can  make  seem  pleasing  to  her  tender  years  ? 

Swear   then  by  something  that  thou   hast  not 

K.  Rich.    Infer  fair  England's  peace  by  this 

wrong'd. 

alliance. 

K,  Rich.  Now  by  the  world, — 

Q.  Miz.  "Which  she  shall  purchase  with  still 

Q,  Eliz.                 'T  is  full  of  thy  foul  wrongs. 

lasting  war. 

K.  Rich.  My  father's  death, — 

K.  Etch.  Tell  her,  the  king,  that  may  command. 

Q.  Eliz.             Thy  life  hath  that  dishonour'd. 

entreats. 

K,  Rich.  Then,  by  myself, — 

Q  Miz.  That  at  her  hands,  which  the  king's 

Q.  Eliz.                           Thyself  is  self-misus'd. 

King  forbids. 

K.  Rich.  Why  then,  by  God,— 

K  Rich.  Say,  she  shall  be  a  high  and  mighty 

Q.  Eliz.                   God's  wrong  is  most  of  all. 

queen. 

If  thou  hadst  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  by  him, 

Q.  Eliz.  To  wail  the  title,  as  her  mother  doth. 

The  unity,  the  king  thy  brother  made, 

1088 

1 

KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


8CKNK   IT. 


Had  not  been  broken,  nor  my  brother  slain. 
If  thou  had'st  fear'd  to  break  an  oath  by  him, 
The  imperial  metal,  circling  now  thy  head, 
Had  grac'd  the  tender  temples  of  my  child  ; 
And  both  the  princes  had  been  breathing  here. 
Which  now,  two  tender  bed-fellows  for  dust, 
Thy  broken  faith  hath  made  a  prey  for  worms. 
What  canst  thou  swear  by  now  ? 

K.  Rich.  By  the  time  to  come. 

Q.  Eliz.    That  thou  hast  wrong'd  in  the  time 

o'er-past ; 
For  I  myself  have  many  tears  to  wash 
Hereafter  time,  for  time  past,  wrong'd  by  thee. 
The  children  live,  whose  parents  thou  hast  slaugh- 

ter'd, 
Ungovern'd  youth,  to  wail  it  in  their  age  : 
The    parents    live,    whose    children    thou    hast 

butcher'd, 
Old  barren  plants,  to  wail  it  with  their  age. 
Swear  not  by  time  to  come  ;  for  that  thou  hast 
Misus'd  ere  us'd,  by  times  ill-us'd  o'er  past. 

K.  Rich.  As  I  intend  to  prosper,  and  repent ! 
So  thrive  I  in  my  dangerous  attempt 
Of  hostile  arms  !  myself  myself  confound  ! 
Heaven,  and  fortune,  bar  me  happy  hours ! 
Day,   yield   me  not   thy  light!    nor,  night,   thy 

rest ! 
Be  opposite  all  planets  of  good  luck 
To  my  proceeding,  if,  with  pure  heart's  love. 
Immaculate  devotion,  holy  thoughts, 
I  tender  not  thy  beauteous  princely  daughter ! 
In  her  consists  my  happiness,  and  thine  ; 
Without  her,  follows  to  myself  and  thee, 
Herself,  the  land,  and  many  a  Christian  soul, 
Death,  desolation,  ruin,  and  decay  : 
It  cannot  be  avoided,  but  by  this  ; 
It  will  not  be  avoided,  but  by  this. 
Therefore,  dear  mother,  (I  must  call  you  so,) 
Be  the  attorney  of  my  love  to  her. 
Plead  what  I  will  be,  not  what  I  have  been ; 
Not  my  deserts,  but  what  I  will  deserve : 
Urge  the  necessity  and  state  of  times, 
And  be  not  peevish  found  in  great  designs. 
Q.  Eliz.  Shall  I  be  tempted  of  the  devil  thus  ? 
K.  Rich.  Ay,  if  the  devil  tempt  thee  to  do 

good. 
Q.  Eliz.  Shall  I  forget  myself,  to  be  myself? 
K.  Rich.  Ay,  if  your  self's  remembrance  wrong 

yourself. 
Q.  Eliz.  But  thou  didst  kill  my  children. 
K,  Rich.  But  in  your  daughter's  womb  I  bury 

them  : 


Where,  in  that  nest  of  spicery,  they  shall  breed 
Selves  of  themselves,  to  your  recomforture. 

Q.  Eliz.    Shall  I  go  win  my  daughter  to  thy 
will? 

K.  Rich.  And  be  a  happy  mother  by  the  deed. 

Q.  Eliz.  I  go. — Write  to  me  very  shortly, 
And  you  shall  understand  from  me  her  mind. 

K.  Rich.  Bear  her  my  true  love's  kiss,  and  so 
farewell.     [Kissing  her.     Exit  (^.'E.u.z 
Relenting  fool,  and  shallow,  changing — woman  !" 
How  now  ?  what  news  ? 

Enter  Ratcliff;  GkfE.SBY  following. 

Rat.  Most  mighty  sovereign,  on  the  western  coast 
Rideth  a  puissant  navy  ;  to  the  shore 
Throng  many  doubtful  hollow-hearted  friends, 
Unarm'd,  and  unresolv'd  to  beat  them  back : 
'T  is  thought,  that  Richmond  is  their  admiral ; 
And  there  they  hull,  expecting  but  the  aid 
Of  Buckingham,  to  welcome  them  ashore. 

K.  Rich.  Some  light-foot  friend  post  to  the  duke 
of  Norfolk : — 
Ratcliff,  thyself, — or  Catesby ;  where  is  he  ? 
Gate.  Here,  my  good  lord. 
K.  Rich.  Catesby,  fly  to  the  duke. 

Cate.  I  will,  my  lord,  with  all  convenient  hasto 
K.  Rich.  Ratcliff,  come  hither :  Post  to  Salis- 
bury ; 
When  thou  com'st  thither, — Dull  unmindful  vil- 
lain, [To  Cate. 
Why  stay'st  thou  here,  and  go'st  not  to  the  duke  ? 
Cate.  First,  mighty  liege,  tell  me  your  highness' 
pleasure. 
What  from  your  grace  I  shall  deliver  to  him. 
K.  Rich.  O,  true,  good  Catesby ; — Bid  him  levy 
straight 
The  greatest  strength  and  power  he  can  make, 
And  meet  me  suddenly  at  Salisbury. 

Cate.  I  go.  [Exit. 

Rat.  What,  may  it  please  you,  shall  I  do  at 

Salisbury  ? 
K.  Rich.  Why,  what  would'st  thou  do  there, 

before  I  go  ? 
Rat.    Your  highness  told  me,  I  should  post 
before. 

Enter  Stanley. 

K.  Rich.  My  mind  is  chang'd. — Stanley,  what 

news  with  you? 
Stan.  None  good,  my  liege,  to  please  you  witli 
the  hearing  ; 
Nor  none  so  bad,  but  well  may  be  reported. 

1089 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCBNS   IV. 


K.  Rich.  Heyday,  a  riddle !  neither  good  nor 
bad  ! 
WTiat  need'st  thou  run  so  many  miles  about, 
When  thou  iiiMy'st  tell  thy  tale  the  nearest  way  ? 
Once  more,  what  news  ? 

Stan.  Richmond  is  on  the  seas. 

K.  Rich.    There  let  him  sink,  and  be  the  seas 
on  him  ! 
VVhite-liver'd  runagate,  what  doth  he  there? 
Stan.    I  know   not,  mighty  sovereign,  but  by 

guess. 
K.  Rich.  Well,  as  you  guess  ? 
Stan.  Stirr'd  up  by  Dorset,  Buckingham,  and 
Morton, 
He  makes  for  England,  here  to  claim  the  crown. 
K.  Rich.    Is  the   chair  empty  ?  is  the  sword 
unsway'd  ? 
Is  the  king  dead  ?  the  empire  unpossess'd  ? 
What  heir  of  York  is  there  alive,  but  we  ? 
And  who  is   England's  king,   but  great   York's 

heir  ? 
Then,  tell  me,  what  makes  he  upon  the  seas  ? 
Stan.  Unless  for  that,  my  liege,  I  cannot  guess. 
K.  Rich.  Unless  for  that  he  comes  to  be  your 
liege, 
Von  cannot  guess  wherefore  the  Welshman  comes. 
Ihou  wilt  revolt,  and  fly  to  him,  I  fear. 
Stan.  No,  mighty  liege  ;  therefore  mistrust  me 

not. 
K.  Rich.    Where  is  thy  power  then,  to  beat 
him  buck  ? 
Where  be  thy  tenants,  and  thy  followers  ? 
Are  they  not  uow  upon  the  western  shore. 
Safe-conducting  the  rebels  from  their  ships  ? 
Stan.  No,  my  good  lord,  my  friends  are  in  the 

north. 
K.  Rich.    Cold  friends  to  me:  What  do  they 
in  the  north. 
When  they  should  serve  their  sovereign  in  the  west? 
Stan.  They  "have  not  been  commanded,  mighty 
king : 
Pleaseth  your  majesty  to  give  me  leave, 
I  '11  muster  up  my  friends  ;  and  meet  your  grace, 
Where,  and  what  time,  your  majesty  shall  please. 
K.  Rich.  Ay,  ay,  thou  wouldst  be  gone  to  join 
with  Richmond  : 
I  will  not  trust  you,  sir. 

Stan.  Most  mighty  sovereign. 

You  have  no  cause  to  hold  my  friendship  doubtful ; 
I  never  was,  nor  never  will  be  false. 

K.  Rich.    Well,  go,  muster  men.     But,  hear 
you,  leave  behind 
1040 


Your  son,  George  Stanley ;  look  your  heart  b% 

firm. 
Or  else  his  head's  assurance  is  but  frail. 

Stan.    So  deal  with  him,  as  I  prove  true  to 

you.  \JExit  Stan. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.    My  gracious  sovereign,  now  in  I>evon- 
shire, 
As  I  by  friends  am  well  advertised, 
Sir  Edward  Courtney,  and  the  haughty  prelate, 
Bishop  of  Exeter,  his  elder  brother, 
With  many  more  confederates,  are  in  arms. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

2nd  Mess.    In  Kent,  my  liege,  the  Guildfords 
are  in  arms ; 
And  every  hour  more  competitors 
Flock  to  the  rebels,  and  their  power  grows  strong. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Zrd  Mess.  My  lord,  the  array  of  great  Bucking- 
ham— 

K.  Rich.  Out  on  ye,  owls !  nothing  but  songs 

of  death  ?  [lie  strikes  him. 

There,  take  thou  that,  till  thou  bring  better  news. 

3rd  Mess.  The  news  1  have  to  tell  your  majesty, 
Is, — that,  by  sudden  floods  and  fall  of  waters, 
Buckingham's  army  is  dispers'd  and  scatter'd  ; 
And  he  himself  wander'd  away  alone. 
No  man  knows  whither. 

K.  Rich.  O,  I  cry  you  mercy : 

There  is  my  purse,  to  cure  that  blow  of  thine. 
Hath  any  well-advised  friend  proclaim'd 
Reward  to  him  that  brings  the  traitor  in  ? 

3rd  Mess.  Such  proclamation  hath  been  made, 
my  liege. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

ah  Mess.  Sir  Thomas  Level,  and  lord  marquis 

Dorset, 
'T  is  said,  my  liege,  in  Yorkshire  are  in  arms. 
But  this  good  comfort  bring  I  to  your  highness, — 
The  Br.etague  navy  is  dispers'd  by  tempest : 
Richmond,  in  Doi-setshire,  sent  out  a  boat 
Unto  the  shore,  to  ask  those  on  the  banks, 
If  they  were  his  assistants,  yea,  or  no  ; 
Who  answer'd  him,  they  came  from  Buckingham 
Upon  his  party  :  he,  mistrusting  them, 
Hois'd  sail,  and  made  his  course  again  for  Bretagne. 
K.  Rich.  March  on,  march  on,  since  we  are  up 

in  arms ; 


ACT   V. 


KING  KIOHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE  i-n. 


If  not  to  fight  with  foreign  enemies, 

Yet  to  beat  down  these  rebels  here  at  home. 

Enter  Catesby. 

Cate.    My  liege,  the  duke  of  Buckingham  is 
taken. 
That  is  the  best  news:   That  the  earl  of  Rich- 
mond 
Is  with  a  mighty  power  landed  at  Milford/* 
Is  colder  news,  but  yet  they  must  be  told. 

K.  Rich.  Away  towards  Salisbury ;  while  we 
reason  here, 
A  royal  battle  might  be  won  and  lost : — 
Some  one  take  order,  Buckingham  be  brought 
To  Salisbury ; — the  rest  march  on  with  me. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— ^  Room  in  Lord  Stanley's  House. 
Enter  Stanley  and  Sir  Christopher  Urswick. 

Stan.  Sir  Christopher,  tell  Richmond  this  from 
me : — 


That,  in  the  sty  of  this  most  bloody  boar, 
My  son  George  Stanley  is  frank'd  up  in  hold  : 
If  I  revolt,  off  goes  young  George's  head  ; 
The  fear  of  that  withholds  my  present  aid. 
But,  tell  me,  where  is  princely  Richmond  now  ? 

Chris.    At  Pembroke,  or  at  Ha'rford-west,  ii 
Wales. 

Stan.  What  men  of  name  resort  to  him  ? 

Chris.  Sir  Walter  Herbert,  a  renowned  spldier ; 
Sir  Gilbert  Talbot,  sir  William  Stanley ; 
Oxford,  redoubted  Pembroke,  sir  James  Blunt 
And  Rice  ap  Thomas,  with  a  valiant  crew ; 
And  many  other  of  great  fame  and  worth : 
And  towards  London  do  they  bend  their  course, 
K  by  the  way  they  be  not  fought  withal. 

Stan.    Well,  hie  thee  to  thy  lord ;  commend 
me  to  him ; 
Tell  him,  the  queen  hath  heartily  consented 
He  shall  espouse  Elizabeth  her  daughter. 
These  letters  will  resolve  him  of  my  mind. 
Farewell.  [Gives  Papers  to  Cbbis.] 

[Exeunt, 


4 


ACT  Y. 


SCENE  L— Salisbury.     An  open  Place. 

Enter  the  Sheriff,  and  Guard,  with  Bucking- 
ham, led  to  Execution. 

Buck.  Will  not  king  Richard  let  me  speak  with 
him? 

Sher.  No,  my  good  loid  ;  therefore  be  patient. 

Buck.  Hastings,  and  Edward's  children,  Rivers, 
Grey, 
Holy  king  Henry,  and  thy  fair  son  Edward, 
Vaughan,  and  all  that  have  miscarried 
By  underhand  corrupted  foul  injustice ; 
If  that  your  moody  discontented  souls 
Do  through  the  clouds  behold  this  present  hour, 
Even  for  revenge  mock  ray  destruction  ! — 
This  is  AU-Souls'  day,  fellows,  is  it  not  ? 

Sher.  It  is,  my  lord. 

Buck.  Why,  then  AU-Souls'  day  is  my  body's 
doomsday. 
This  is  the  day,  which,  in  king  Edward's  time, 
I  wish'd  might  fall  on  me,  when  I  was  found 
False  to  his  children,  or  his  wife's  allies  : 
This  is  the  day,  wherein  I  wish'd  to  fall 

181 


By  the  false  faith  of  him  whom  most  I  trusted ; 
This,  this  All-Souls*  day  to  my  fearful  soul. 
Is  the  determin'd  respite  of  my  wrongs. 
That  high  All-seer  which  I  dallied  with. 
Hath  turned  my  feigned  prayer  on  my  head. 
And  given  in  earnest  what  I  begg'd  in  jest. 
Thus  doth  he  force  the  swords  of  wicked  men 
To  turn  their  own  points  on  their  masters'  bosoms : 
Thus  Margaret's  curse  falls  heavj  on  my  neck, — 
"  When  he,"  quoth   she,   "  shall  split  thy  heart 

with  sorrow, 
Remember  Margaret  was  a  prophetess." — 
Come,  sirs,  convey  me  to  the  block  of  shame ; 
Wrong  hath  but  wrong,  and  blame  the  due  of 

blame.  [Exeunt  Buck.,  dkc. 

SCENE  XL — Plain  near  Tam worth. 

Enter,  with  Drum  and  Colours,  Richmond,  Ox- 
ford, Sir  James  Blunt,  Sir  Walter  Heb- 
BERT,  and  Others,  vnth  Forces,  marching. 

Richm.  Fellows  in  arms,  and  my  most  loving 
friends, 

1041 


Aw'T    V. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


sfjENK  in. 


Bniis'd  underneath  the  yoke  of  tyranny, 

Thus  far  into  the  bowels  of  the  land 

Have  we  march'd  on  without  impediment ; 

And  here  receive  we  from  our  father  Stanley 

Lines  of  fair  comfort  and  encouragement, 

I'he  reckless,  bloody,  and  usurping  boar, 

That  spoil'd  your  summer  fields,  and  fruitful  vines, 

Swills  your  warm  blood  like  wash,  and  makes  his 

trough 
In  your  embowell'd  bosoms,  this  foul  swine 
Lies  now  even  in  the  centre  of  this  isle, 
Near  to  the  town  of  Leicester,  as  we  learn  : 
From  Tarn  worth  thither,  is  but  one  day's  march. 
In  God's  name,  cheerly  on,  courageous  friends. 
To  reap  the  harvest  of  perpetual  peace 
By  this  one  bloody  trial  of  sharp  war. 

Oxf.    Every  man's  conscience  is  a  thousand 

swords, 
To  fight  against  that  bloody  homicide. 

Herh.  I  doubt  not,  but  his  friends  will  turn  to  us. 
Blunt.  He  hath  no  friends,  but  who  are  friends 

for  fear ; 
Which,  in  his  dearest  need,  will  fly  from  him. 
R'lckm.   All  for  our  vantage.     Then,  in  God's 

name,  march  : 
True  hope  is  swift,  and  flies  with  swallow's  wings. 
Kings  it  makes  gods,  and  meaner  creatures  kings. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— Bosworth  Field. 

Enter  King  Richard,  and  Forces ;  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  Others. 

K.  Rich.    Here  pitch  our  tents,  even  here  in 

Bosworth  field. — 
My  lord  of  Surrey,  why  look  you  so  sad  ? 

Sur.  My  heart  is  ten  times  lighter  than  my 

looks. 

K.  Rich.  My  lord  of  Norfolk, 

Nor.  Here,  most  gracious  liege. 

K.  Rich.  Norfolk,  we  must  have  knocks  :  Ha! 

must  we  not  ? 
Nv^.  We  must  both  give  and  take,  my  loving 

lord.  ■ 
K  Rich.   Up  with  my  tent :  Here  will  I  lie 

to-night ; 
[^Soldiers  begin  to  set  up  the  King's  Tent. 
But  where,  to-morrow  ? — Well,  all 's  one  for  that. — 
Who  hath  descried  the  number  of  the  traitors  ? 
Nor.  Six  or  seven  thousand  is  their  utmost  power. 
K.  Rich.    Why,  our  battalia  trebles  that  ac- 
count: 

1042 


Besides,  the  king's  name  is  a  tower  of  strength 
Which  they  upon  the  adverse  faction  want. 
Up  with  the  tent. — Come,  noble  gentlemen. 
Let  us  survey  the  vantage  of  the  ground ; — 
Call  for  some  men  of  sound  direction  : — 
Let 's  want  no  discipline,  make  no  delay  ; 
For,  lords,  to-morrow  is  a  busy  day.         [Exeunt. 

Enter,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Field,  Richmond, 
Sir  William  Brandon,  Oxford,  and  other 
Lords.  Sotne  of  the  Soldiers  joi^cA  Richmond's 
Tent. 

Richm.  The  weary  sun  hath  made  a  golden  set, 
And,  by  the  bright  track  of  his  fiery  car. 
Gives  token  of  a  goodly  day  to-morrow. — 
Sir  William  Brandon,  you  shall  bear  my  stand- 
ard.— 
Give  me  some  ink  and  paper  in  my  tent ; — 
I  '11  draw  the  form  and  model  of  our  battle. 
Limit  each  leader  to  his  several  charge. 
And  part  in  just  proportion  our  small  power. 
My  lord  of  Oxford, — you,  sir  William  Brandon, — 
And  you,  sir  Walter  Herbert,  stay  with  me : 
The  earl  of  Pembroke  keeps  his  regiment ; — *' 
Good  captain  Blunt,  bear  my  good  night  to  him, 
And  by  the  second  hour  in  the  morning 
Desire  the  earl  to  see  me  in  my  tent : — 
Yet  one  thing  more,  good  captain,  do  for  me ; 
Where  is  lord  Stanley  quarter'd,  do  you  know  ? 

Blunt.  Unless  I  have  mista'en  his  colours  much, 
(Which,  well  I  am  assur'd,  I  have  not  done,) 
His  regiment  lies  half-a-mile  at  least 
South  from  the  mighty  power  of  the  king. 

Richm.  If  without  peril  it  be  possible. 
Sweet  Blunt,  make  some  good  means  to  speak 

with  him. 
And  g^ve  him  from  me  this  most  needful  note. 

Blunt.  Upon  my  life,  my  lord,  I  '11  undertake  it ; 
And  80,  God  give  you  quiet  rest  to-night  I 

Richm.  Good  night,  good  captain  Blunt.  Come, 
gentlemen, 
Let  us  consult  upon  to-morrow's  business ; 
In  to  my  tent,  the  air  is  raw  and  cold. 

[Theg  withdraw  into  the  Tent. 

Enter,  to  his   Tent,  King  Richard,  Norfolk, 
Ratcliff,  and  Catesby. 

K.  Rich.  What  is 't  o'clock  ? 

Cate.  It 's  supper  time,  my  lord: 

It  's  nine  o'clock.'" 

jBT.  Rich.  I  will  not  sup  to-night. — 

G  ve  me  some  ink  and  paper. — 


KING   RICHARD  THE  THIRL). 


8CKNE    III. 


What,  is  my  beaver  easier  than  it  was  ? — 
And  all  my  armour  laid  into  my  tent  ? 

Cate.    It  is,  my  liege;  and   all  things  are  in 

readiness. 
K.  Rich.  Good  Norfolk,  hie  thee  to  thy  charge ; 
Use  careful  watch,  choose  trusty  sentinels. 
Nor.  I  go,  my  lord. 
K.  Rich.  Stir  with  the  lark  to-morrow,  gentle 

Norfolk. 
Nor.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord.  \^Exit. 

K.  Rich.  Ratcliff, 

Rat.  My  lord  ? 

K.  Rich.  Send  out  a  pursuivant  at  arms 

To  Stanley's  regiment ;  bid  him  bring  his  power 
Before  sun-rising,  lest  his  son  George  fall  * 

Into  the  blind  cave  of  eternal  night. — 
Fill  me  a  bowl  of  wine. — Give  me  a  watch  ;* 

[To  Gate. 
Saddle  white  Surrey  for  the  field  to-morrow. — 
Look  that  my   staves  be  sound,""  and  not   too 
heavy. 

Tatcliff, 

Rat.  My  lord  ? 

K.  Rich.    Saw'st   thou    the   melancholy  lord 

Northumberland  ?^'' 
Rat.  Thomas  the  earl  of  Surrey,  and  himself, 
Much  about  cock-shut  time,*'  from  troop  to  troop, 
Went  through  the  army,  cheering  up  the  soldiers. 
K.  Rich.    I  am  satisfied.     Give  me  a  bowl  of 
wine  : 
I  have  not  that  alacrity  of  spirit, 
Nor  cheer  of  mind,  that  I  was  wont  to  have. — 
So,  set  it  down. — Is  ink  and  paper  ready  ? 
Rat.  It  is,  my  lord. 

K.  Rich.  Bid  my  guard  watch  ;  leave  me. 

About  the  mid  of  night,  come  to  ray  tent 
And  help  to  arm  me. — Leave  me,  I  say. 

[K.  Rich,  retires  into  his  Tent.     Exeunt  Rat. 
and  Gate. 

Richmond's  Tent  opens,  and  discovers  him  and 
his  Ofiicers,  <S:c. 

Enter  Stanley. 

Stan.  Fortune  and  victory  sit  on  thy  helm  ! 

Richm.   All  comfort  that  the  dark  night  can 
aftbi-d, 
Be  to  thy  person,  noble  fajjier-in-law  1 
Tell  me,  how  fares  our  loving  mother  ? 

Stan.  I,  ly  attorney,  bless  thee  from  thy  mother, 
Who  prays  continually  for  Richmond's  good : 
So  much  for  that. — The  silent  hours  steal  on 


And  flaky  darkness  breaks  within  the  east. 
In  brief,  for  so  the  season  bids  us  be, 
Prepare  thy  battle  early  in  the  morning; 
And  put  thy  fortune  to  the  arbitreraent 
Of  bloody  strokes,  and  mortal-staring  war. 
I,  as  I  may,  (that  which  I  would,  I  cannot,) 
With  best  advantage  will  deceive  the  time. 
And  aid  thee  in  this  doubtful  ^hock  of  arms : 
But  on  thy  side  I  may  not  be  too  forward, 
Lest,  being  seen,  thy  brother  tender  George 
Be  executed  in  his  father's  sight. 
Farewell :  The  leisure  and  the  fearful  time 
Cuts  oflf  the  ceremonious  vows  of  love, 
And  ample  interchange  of  sweet  discourse, 
Which   so   long   sunder'd   friends   should    dwell 

upon  ; 
God  give  us  leisure  for  these  rites  of  love  ! 
Once  more,  adieu : — Be  valiant,  and  speed  well ! 
Richm.    Good  lords,  conduct  him  to  his  regi 

ment : 
I  '11  strive,  with  troubled  thoughts,  to  take  a  nap : 
Lest  leaden  slumber  peise  me  down  to-morrt  w. 
When  I  should  mount  with  wings  of  victory  : 
Once  more,  good  night,  kind  lords  and  gentle 

men.        [jSxeunt  Lords,  dbc,  with  Stax 
0  Thou !  whose  captain  I  account  myself, 
Look  on  my  forces  with  a  gracious  eye ; 
Put  in  their  hands  thy  bruising  irons  of  wrath, 
That  they  may  crush  down  with  a  heavy  fall 
The  usurping  helmets  of  our  adversaries  ! 
Make  us  thy  ministers  of  chastisement. 
That  we  may  praise  thee  in  thy  victory ! 
To  thee  I  do  commend  my  watchful  soul. 
Ere  I  let  fall  the  windows  of  mine  eyes  ; 
Sleeping,  and  waking,  0,  defend  me  still !    [Sleeps. 

The  Ghost  q/"  Prince  Edward,  Son  to  Henry  the 
Sixth,  rises  between  the  two  Tents. 

Ghost.  Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow  I 

[To  K.  Rich. 
Think,   how  thou  stab'dst  me  in   my  prime  ol 

youth 
At  Tewkesbury  :  Despair  therefore,  and  die ! — 
Be  cheerful,  Richmond  ;  for  the  wronged  souls 
Of  butcher'd  princes  fight  in  thy  behalf: 
King  Henry's  issue,  Richmond,  comforts  thee. 

The  Ghost  of  King  Henry  the  Sixth  rises. 

Ghost.  When  I  was  mortal,  my  anomted  body 

[To  K.  Rica 
By  thee  was  punched  full  of  deadly  holes  :" 
Think  on  the  Tower,  and  me :  Despair,  and  die ; 

1043 


ACT  T. 


KING  KICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE  in. 


Harry  the  Sixth  bids  thee  despair  and  die. — 
Virtuous  and  holy,  be  thou  conqueror ! 

[To  RiCHM. 

Flarry,  that  prophesy 'd  thou  should'st  be  king, 
Doth  comfort  thee  in  sleep:  Live  thou,  and  flourish! 

2Tie  Ghost  of  Clarence  rises. 

Ghost.  Let  me  "sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow  1 

[To  K.  Rich. 
I,  that  was  wash'd  to  death  with  fulsome  wine, 
Poor  Clarence,  by  thy  guile  betray'd  to  death  ! 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me, 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword :  Despair,  and  die ! 

Tqou  offspring  of  the  house  of  Lancaster, 

[To  RiCHM. 

The  wronged  heirs  of  York  do  pray  for  thee ; 
Good  angels  guard  thy  battle !  Live,  and  flourish  ! 

The  Ghosts  o/"  Rivers,  Grey,  and  Vaughan,  rise. 

Riv.  Let  me  sit  heavy  on  thy  soul  to-morrow, 

[7\)K.  Rich. 
Rivers,  that  died  at  Pomfret !  Despair,  and  die ! 
Grey.  Think  upon  Grey,  and  let  thy  soul  de- 
spair !  [To  K.  Rich. 
Vaugh.  Think  upon  Vaughan  ;  and,  with  guilty 
fear. 
Let  fall  thy  lance !     Despair,  and  die ! — 

[To  K.  Rich. 
All.  Awake ;  and  think,  our  wrongs  in  Rich- 
ard's bosom  [To  RicHM. 
Will  conquer  him  ; — awake,  and  win  the  day  ! 

The  Ghost  of  Hastings  rises. 

Ghost.  Bloody  and  guilty,  guiltily  awake ; 

[To  K.  Rich. 
And  in  a  bloody  battle  end  thy  days ! 
Think  on  lord  Hastings  ;  and  despair,  and  die  ! — 
Quiet  untroubled  soul,  awake,  awake  ! 

[To  Richm. 
Arm,  fight,  and  conquer,  for  fair  England's  sake ! 

The  Ghosts  of  the  tv}o  young  Princes  rise. 

Ghosts.  Dream  on  thy  cousins  sraother'd  in  the 
Tower ; 
Let  us  be  lead  within  thy  bosom,  Richard, 
And  weigh  thee  down  to  ruin,  shame,  and  death  1 
Thy  nephews'  souls  bid  thee  despair,  and  die. — 

Sleep,  Richmond,  sleep  in  peace,  and  wake  in 

joy; 

Good  angels  guard  thee  from  the  boar's  annoy ! 
Live,  and  beget  a  happy  race  of  kings ! 
Edward's  unhappy  sons  do  bid  thee  flourish. 
1044 


The  Ghost  of  Queen  Anne  rises. 

Ghost.  Richard,  thy  wife,  that  wretched  Anne 
thy  wife. 
That  never  slept  a  quiet  hour  with  thee, 
Now  fills  thy  sleep  with  perturbations : 
To-morrow  in  the  battle  think  on  me. 
And  fall  thy  edgeless  sword  :  Despair,  and  die ! — 

Thou,  quiet  soul,  sleep  thou  a  quiet  sleep ; 

[To  Richm. 
Dream  of  success  and  happy  victory  ; 
Thy  adversary's  wife  doth  pray  for  thee. 

The  Ghost  of  Buckingham  rises. 

'  Ghost.  The  first  was  I,  that  help'd  thee  to  the 
crown  ;  [To  K.  Rich. 

The  last  was  I  that  felt  thy  tyranny : 
O,  in  the  battle  think  on  Buckingham, 
And  die  in  terror  of  thy  guiltiness ! 
Dream  on,  dream  on,  of  bloody  deeds  and  death  ; 
Fainting,  despair ;  despairing,  yield  thy  breath  !— « 
I  died  for  hope,  ere  I  could  lend  thee  aid  : 

[To  Richm. 
But  cheer  thy  heart,  and  be  thou  not  dismay'd : 
God,  and  good  angels  fight  on  Richmond's  side ; 
And  Richard  falls  in  height  of  all  his  pride. 

[The  Ghosts  vanish.     K.  Rich,  starts  out 
of  his  dream. 
K.  Rich.  Give  me  another  horse, — bind  up  my 
wounds, — 
Have  mercy,  Jesu  ! — Soft ;  I  did  but  dream. — 

0  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou  afflict  me  ! — • 
The  lights  burn  blue. — It  is  now  dead  midnight. 
Cold  fearful  drops  stand  on  my  trembling  flesh. 
What  do  I  fear?  myself?  there's  none  else  by: 
Richard  loves  Richard  ;  that  is,  I  am  I. 

Is  there  a  murderer  here  ?     No ; — Yes ;  I  am  : 
Then  fly, — What,  from  myself?     Great  reason 

Why? 
Lest  I  revenge.     What  ?     Myself  on  myself  ? 

1  love  myself.     Wherefore  ?  for  any  good, 
That  I  myself  have  done  unto  myself? 

0,  no  :  alas,  I  rather  hate  myself, 

For  hateful  deeds  committed  by  myself. 

I  am  a  villain :  Yet  I  lie,  I  am  not. 

Fool,  of  thyself  speak  well : — Fool,  do  not  flatter 

My  conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tongues, 

And  every  tongue  brjpgs  in  a  several  tale, 

And  every  tale  condemns  me  for  a  villain. 

Perjury,  perjury,  in  the  high'st  degree, 

Murder,  stern  murder,  in  the  dir'st  degree ; 

All  several  sins,  all  us'd  in  each  degree, 


ACT    V 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENB  in. 


Throng  to  the  bar,  crying  all, — Guilty  !  guilty  ! 

I  shall  despair. — There  is  no  creature  loves  me ; 

And,  if  I  die,  no  soul  will  pity  me : — 

Nay,  wherefore  should  they  ?  since  that  I  myself 

Find  in  myself  no  pity  to  myself. 

MetLought,  the  souls  of  all  that  I  had  murder'd 

Came  to  my  tent :  and  every  one  did  threat 

To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of  Richard. 


Enter  Ratcliff. 


Rat.  My  lord,- 


K.  Rich.  Who  's  there  ? 

Rat.  Ratcliff,  my  lord  ;  't  is  I.     The  early  vil- 
lage cock 
Hath  twice  done  salutation  to  the  morn; 
Your  friends  are  up,  and  buckle  on  their  armour. 
K.  Rich,  O,  Ratcliff,  I  have  dream'd  a  fearful 
dream  ! — 
What  thinkest  thou  ?  will  our  friends  prove  all 
true  ? 
Rat.  No  doubt,  my  lord. 
K.  Rich.  Ratcliff,  I  fear,  I  fear, — 

Rat.  Nay,   good    my  lord,  be   not   afraid  of 

shadows. 
K,  Rich.  By  the  apostle  Paul,  shadows  to-night 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of  Richard, 
Than  can  the  substance  of  ten  thousand  soldiers. 
Armed  in  proof,  and  led  by  shallow  Richmond. 
It  is  not  yet  near  day.     Come,  go  with  me  ; 
Under  our  tents  I  '11  play  the  eaves-dropper. 
To  hear,  if  any  mean  to  shrink  from  me. 

[Exeunt  K.  Rich,  and  Rat. 

Richmond  wakes.     Enter  Oxford  and  Others. 

Lords.  Good  morrow,  Richmond. 
Richm.  'Cry  mercy,  lords,  and  watchful  gen- 
tlemen, 
That  you  have  ta'en  a  tardy  sluggard  here. 
Lords.  How  have  you  slept,  my  lord  ? 
Richm.  The  sweetest  sleep,  and  fairest-boding 
dreams. 
That  ever  enter'd  in  a  drowsy  head, 
Have  I  since  your  departure  had,  my  lords. 
Methought,    their  souls,  whose   bodies   Richard 

murder'd. 
Came  to  my  tent,  and  cried — On  !  victory  ! 
I  promise  you,  ray  heart  is  very  jocund 
In  the  remembrance  of  so  fair  a  dream. 
How  far  into  the  morning  is  it,  lords? 
Lords.  Upon  the  stroke  of  four. 
Richm.  Why,  then  't  is  time  to  arm,  and  give 
direction. —  \He  advances  to  the  Troops. 


More  than  I  have  said,  loving  countrymen, 
The  leisure  and  enforcement  of  the  time 
Forbids  to  dwell  on  :  Yet  remember  this, — 
God,  and  our  good  cause,  fight  upon  our  side  ; 
The  prayers  of  holy  saints,  and  wronged  souls. 
Like  high-rear'd  bulwarks,  stand  before  our  faces 
Richard  except,  those,  whom  we  fight  against. 
Had  rather  have  us  win,  than  him  they  follow. 
For  what  is  he  they  follow  ?  truly,  gentlemen, 
A  bloody  tyrant,  and  a  homicide 
One  rais'd  in  blood,  and  one  in  blood  establish 'd 
One  that  made  means  to  come  by  what  he  hath, 
And  slaughter'd  those  that  were  the  means  to 

help  him ; 
A  base  foul  stone,  made  precious  by  the  foil 
Of  England's  chair,  where  he  is  falsely  set ; 
One  that  hath  ever  been  God's  enemy : 
Then,  if  you  fight  against  God's  enemy, 
God  will,  in  justice,  ward  you  as  his  soldiers ; 
If  you  do  sweat  to  put  a  tyrant  down. 
You  sleep  in  peace,  the  tyrant  being  slain ; 
If  you  do  fight  against  your  country's  foes. 
Your  country's  fat  shall  pay  your  pains  the  hire ; 
If  you  do  fight  in  safeguard  of  your  wives. 
Your  wives  shall  welcome  home  the  conquerors ; 
If  you  do  free,  your  children  from  the  sword. 
Your  children's  children  quit  it  in  your  age. 
Then,  in  the  name  of  God,  and  all  these  rights. 
Advance  your  standards,  draw  your  willing  swords: 
For  me,  the  ransom  of  my  bold  attempt 
Shall  be  this  cold  corpse  on  the  earth's  cold  face ; 
But  if  I  thrive,  the  gain  of  my  attempt 
The  least  of  you  shall  share  his  part  thereof. 
Sound,  drums  and  trumpets,  boldly  and  cheer- 

fully; 
God,  and  Saint  George  !  Richmond,  and  victory  1 

[Exeunt. 

Re-enter  King  Richard,  Ratcuff,  Attendants, 
and  Forces. 

K.  Rich.  What  said  Northumberland,  as  touch- 
ing Richmond  ? 
Rat.  That  he  was  never  trained  up  in  arms. 
K.  Rich.  He  said  the  truth :  And  what  said 

Surrey  then  ? 
Rat.  He  smil'd  and  said,  the  better  for  out 

purpose. 
K.  Rich.  He  was  i'  the  right ;  and  so,  indeed, 
it  is.  [Clock  strikes 

Tell  the  clock  there. — Give  me  a  calendar. — 
Who  saw  the  sun  to-day  ? 

Rat.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

1046 


ACT    V. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    IV. 


K.  Rich.  Then  he   disdains  to  shine  ;   for,  by 
the  book, 
He  should  have  brav'd  the  east  an  hour  ago : 
A  black  day  will  it  be  to  somebody. — 
RatoIiiF, 

Rat.  My  lord  ? 

K,  Rich.  The  sun  will  not  be  seen  to-day ; 

The  sky  doth  frown  and  lour  upon  our  army. 
1  would,  these  dewy  tears  were  from  the  ground. 
Not  shine  to-day  !    Why,  what  is  that  to  me, 
More  than  to  Richmond  ?  for  the  self-same  heaven, 
That  frowns  on  me,  looks  sadly  upon  him. 

Enter  Norfolk. 

Nor.  Arm,  arm,  my  lord ;  the  foe  vaunts  in 

the  field. 
K.  Rich.  Come,  bustle,  bustle  ; — Caparison  my 
horse ; — 
Call  up  lord  Stanley,  bid  him  bring  his  power  : — 
I  will  lead  forth  ray  soldiers  to  the  plain, 
And  thus  my  battle  shall  be  ordered. 
My  forev/ard  shall  be  drawn  out  all  in  length, 
Consisting  equally  of  horse  and  foot; 
Oiir  archers  shall  be  placed  in  the  midst; 
John  duke  of  Norfolk,  Thomas  earl  of  Surrey, 
Shall  have  the  leading  of  this  foot  and  horse. 
They  thus  directed,  we  ourself  will  follow 
Iti  the  main  battle ;  whose  puissance  on  either 

side 
Shall  be  well  winged  with  our  chiefest  horse. 
This,  and  Saint  George  to  boot !"    What  think'st 
thou,  Norfolk  ? 
Nor.  A  good  direction,  warlike  sovereign. — 
This  found  I  on  my  tent  this  morning. 

\Criving  a  Scroll. 
K.  Rich.  "  Jocky  of  Norfolk,  be  not  too  bold, 

[Reads. 
For  Dickon  thy  master  is  bought  and 
sold." 
A  thing  devised  by  the  enemy. — 
Go,  gentlemen,  every  man  unto  his  charge : 
Let  not  our  babbling  dreams  affright  our  souls  ; 
Conscience  is  but  a  word  that  cowards  use, 
Devis'd  at  first  to  keep  the  strong  in  awe ; 
Our  strong  arms  be  our  conscience,  swords  our 

law. 
March  on,  join  bravely,  let  us  to  't  pell-mell ; 
If  not  to  heaven,  then  hand  in  hand  to  hell. 

What  shall  I  say  more  than  I  have  infer'd  ? 
Remember  whom  you  are  to  cope  withal ; — 
A  sort  of  vagabonds,  rascals,  and  run-aways, 
A  scum  of  Bretagnes,  and  base  lackey  peasants, 
1046 


Whom  their  o'er-cloyed  country  von  Us  forth 

To  desperate  ventures  and  assur'd  destruction. 

You  sleeping  safe,  they  bring  you  to  unrest ; 

You  having  lands,  and  bless'd  with  beauteous 
wives, 

They  would  restrain  the  one,  distain  the  other. 

And  who  doth  lead  them,  but  a  paltry  fellow, 

Long  kept  in  Bretagne  at  our  mother's  cost  ? 

A  milk-sop,  one  that  never  in  his  life 

Felt  so  much  cold  as  over  shoes  in  snow  ? 

Let 's  whip  these  stragglers  o'er  the  seas  again ; 

Lash  hence  these  over- weening  rags  of  France, 

These  famish'd  beggars,  weary  of  their  lives ; 

Who,  but  for  dreaming  on  this  fond  exploit, 

For  want  of  means,  poor  rats,  had  hang'd  them  • 
selves : 

If  we  be  conquer'd,  let  men  conquer  us, 

And  not  these  bastard  Bretagnes  ;  whom  our 
fathers 

Have  in  their  own  land  beaten,  bobb'd,  and 
thump'd, 

And,  on  record,  left  them  the  heirs  of  shame. 

Shall  these  enjoy  our  lands  ?  lie  with  our  wives  ? 

Ravish  our  daughters  ? — Hark,  I  hear  their  drum. 

'[Drum  afar  off 

Fight,  gentlemen  of  England !  fight,  bold  yeo- 
men ! 

Draw,  archers,  draw  your  arrows  to  the  head  ; 

Spur  your  proud  horses  hard,  and  ride  in  blood ; 

Amaze  the  welkin  with  your  broken  staves  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

What  says  lord  Stanley  ?  will  he  bring  his  power  ? 

Mess.  My  lord,  he  doth  deny  to  come. 

IC.  Rich.    Off  instantly  with   his  son  George's 
head. 

Nor.  My  lord,  the  enemy  is  pass'd  the  march  ; 
After  the  battle  let  George  Stanley  die. 

JT.  Rich.  A  thousand  hearts  are  great  within 
my  bosom  . 
Advance  our  standards,  set  upon  our  foes ; 
Our  ancient  word  of  courage,  fair  Saint  George, 
Inspire  us  with  the  spleen  of  fiery  dragons  ! 
Upon  them !  Victory  sits  on  our  helms.    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV  —Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

Alarum:    Excursions.     Enter  Norfolk,   and 
Forces;  to  him   vAtesbt. 

Cate.    Rescue,   my  lord   of    Norfolk,   rescue, 
rescue ! 
The  king  enacts  more  wonders  than  a  man, 


-^-^  HOR!^};    A  JTojzi,-y 


•r>OM.  F031  A-  B:ORS.h 

ACT :     , 


t  €.'.<yV /.S'SS l>„Jc/t>vson..  iVy  ii  Cf  ifi  t/,^  C^'c'/ajr  e/" t/u-f^'Ctnt^M 


ACT   V. 


KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


SCENE    IV. 


Daring  an  opposite  to  every  danger ; 
His  horse  is  slain,  and  all  on  foot  he  fights, 
Seeking  for  Richmond  in  the  throat  of  death : 
Rescue,  fair  lord,  or  else  the  day  is  lost ! 

Alarum.     Enter  King  Richard. 

K.  Rich.    A  horse  !  a  horse  !  my  kingdom  for 

a  horse  ! 
Cate.  Withdraw,  my  lord,  I  '11  help  you  to  a 

horse. 
K.  Rich.  Slave,  I  have  set  my  life  upon  a  cast, 
And  I  will  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die : 
I  think,  there  be  six  Richmonds  in  the  field ; 
Five  have  I  slain  to-day,  instead  of  him  : — 
A  horse  !  a  horse  !  my  kingdom  for  a  horse  I 

[Exeunt. 

Alarums.  Enter  King  Richard  and  Richmond  ; 
and  exeunt,  fighting.  Retreat,  and  flourish. 
Then  enter  Richmond,  Stanley,  hearing  the 
Crown,  with  divers  other  Lords,  and  Forces. 

Richm.  God,  and  your  arms,  be  prais'd,  victo- 
rious friends  ; 
The  day  is  ours,  the  bloody  dog  is  dead. 

Stan.  Courageous  Richmond,  well  hast  thou 
acquit  thee  1 
Lo,  here,  this  long-usurped  royalty, 
From  the  dead  temples  of  this  bloody  wretch 
Have  I  pluck'd  off,  to  grace  thy  brows  withal ; 
Wear  it,  enjoy  it,  and  make  much  of  it. 

Richm.    Great  God   of  heaven,  say,  amen,  to 

all!— 

But,  tsll  me  first,  is  young  George  Stanley  living  ? 

Stan.    He  is,  my  lord,  and  safe  in   Leicester 

town  ; 

Whither,  if  it  please  you,  we  may  now  withdraw  us. 


Richm.  What  men  of  name  are  slain  on  either 
side? 

Stan.  John  duke  of  Norfolk,  Walter  lord  Fer- 
rers, 
Sir  Robert  Brakenbury,  and  sir  William  Brandon. 

Richm.    Inter  their  bodies  as  becomes  their 
births. 
Proclaim  a  pardon  to  the  soldiers  fled, 
That  in  submission  will  return  to  us  ; 
And  then,  as  we  have  ta'en  the  sacrament," 
We  will  unite  the  white  rose  with  the  red : — 
Smile  heaven  upon  this  fair  conjunction, 
That  long  hath  frown'd  upon  their  enmity ! — 
What  traitor  hears  me,  and  says  not, — amen  ? 
England  hath  long  been  mad,  and  scarr'd  herself; 
The  brother  blindly  shed  the  brother's  blood, 
The  father  rashly  slaughter'd  his  own  son, 
The  son,  compell'd,  been  butcher  to  the  sire ; 
All  this  divided  York  and  Lancaster, 
Divided,  in  their  dire  division. — 
O,  now,  let  Richmond  and  Elizabeth, 
The  true  succeeders  of  each  royal  house, 
By  God's  fair  ordinance  conjoin  together ! 
And  let  their  heirs,  (God,  if  thy  will  be  so,) 
Enrich  the  time  to  come  with  smooth -fac'd  peace, 
With  smiling  plenty,  and  fair  prosperous  days  ! 
Abate  the  edge  of  traitors,  gracious  Lord, 
That  would  reduce"*  these  bloody  days  again. 
And   make   poor   England  weep   in  streams  of 

blood ! 
Let  them  not  live  to  taste  this  land's  increase. 
That  would  with  treason  wound  this  fair  land's 

peace  ! 
Now  civil  wounds  are  stopp'd,  peace  lives  again ; 
That  she  may  long  live  here,  God  say — Amen  I 

[Exeunt 
1047 


lOTES  TO  mm  EICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


'  Made  ghrwut  tunvmer  by  thia  lun  of  York, 

Edward  the  Fourth  adopted  a  blaring  san  as  his  cogni- 
sance, in  memory  of  the  three  sunt  which  are  said  to  have 
appeared  to  him  at  Mortimer's  Cross,  before  his  victory  at 
Towton.  See  Henry  the  Sixth,  Part  III.,  act  ii.,  so.  1.  So 
in  Drayton's  Miseries  of  Queen  Margaret — 

Three  suns  were  seen  that  instant  to  appear, 
"Which  soon  again  shut  themselves  up  in  one ; 

Eeady  to  buckle  as  the  armies  were. 

Which  this  brave  duke  took  to  himself  alone,  &c. 

According  to  tradition,  such  phenomena  frequently  her- 
alded in  remarkable  events. 

*  Toys,  i.  e.,  fancies,  freaks  of  imagination. 

*  We  are  the  queen's  objects. 

That  is,  not  only  her  subjects,  but  her  creatures,  her 
slaves ;  beings  of  no  regard  in  her  eyes. 

«  Or  else  Uefor  you,  i.  e.,  be  imprisoned  in  your  stead. 

^  OyJie  hath  kept  an  evil  diet  Jang. 

Edward's  death  was  supposed  to  be  hastened  by  his  ex- 
cessive passion  at  the  treachery  of  the  French  king ;  but 
his  constitution  was  undermined  by  long  indulgence  in 
dissipation,  and  he  died  after  an  illness  of  a  few  weeks,  on 
the  9th  of  April,  1483,  in  the  twenty-first  year  of  his  reign, 
and  the  forty-first  or  forty-second  of  his  age. 

•  Poor  Jcey-cold  figure  of  a  holy  king  ! 

Key-cold  is  synonymous  with  a  word  at  present  in  use, 
stone-cold.  A  key,  on  account  of  the  coldpess  of  the  metal 
of  which  it  is  made,  is  frequently  employed  to  stop  a  slight 
bleeding. 

»  lb  his  unhappiness. 
His  unhappy  dispositim,  natural  tendency  to  mischief. 

■  O,  gentlemen,  see,  see  I  dead  Henry's  wounds 
Open  their  congedPd  mouths,  and  bleed  afresh! 

This  alludes  to  a  superstition  once  universally  believed, 
that  the  wounds  of  a  murdered  man  opened  and  bled 
af^resh  at  the  touch  or  sight  of  the  murderer ;  as  though 


heaven  endowed  the  dead  with  power  to  indicate  the  as- 
sassin. Numerous  allusions  to  this  idle  but  not  unnatural 
fancy  are  to  be  found  in  our  old  writers.  Thus,  in  Arden 
of  Feversham — 

The  more  I  sound  his  name,  the  more  he  bleeds : 
This  blood  condemns  me,  and  in  gushing  forth 
Speaks  as  it  falls,  and  asks  me  why  I  did  it. 

•  And  fall  somewhat  into  a  slower  method. 

By  our  old  authors,  quick  was  often  used  for  lively,  and 
slower  for  serious. 

•"  Repair  to  Grosby-place. 

Crosby-place  is  now  Crosby-square,  in  Bishopsgate-street. 
The  house  in  which  Richard  there  resided  was  built  in 
1466  by  Sir  John  Crosby,  an  alderman  of  London.  Stow 
describes  it  as  "  very  large  and  beautiful,  and  the  highest 
at  that  time  in  London."  The  ancient  hall  of  this  build- 
ing is  still  existing ;  and,  after  having  been  put  to  va.-ious 
uses — converted  at  one  time  into  a  dissenting  chapel,  and 
at  another  into  a  warehouse — it  has  lately  been  restored  in 
imitation  of  its  ancient  splendour,  and  now  serves  as  a 
concert  and  lecture-hall. 

»  StabVd  in  my  angry  mood  at  Tewkesbury. 

"Here,"  says  Mr.  Malone,  "we  have  the  exact  time  of 
this  scene  ascertained,  namely,  August,  1471.  King  Ed- 
ward, however,  is  in  the  second  act  introduced  dying. 
That  king  died  in  April,  1483;  so  there  is  an  interval  be- 
tween this  and  the  next  act  of  almost  twelve  years.  Clar- 
ence, who  is  represented  in  the  preceding  scene  as  com- 
mitted to  the  Tower  before  the  burial  of  King  Henry  the 
Sixth,  was  in  fact  not  confined  or  put  to  death  till  seven 
years  afterwards,  March,  1477-8." 

»'  A  beggarly  denier,  i.  e.,  the  twelfth  part  of  a  French 
sous. 

"  27ie  Countess  Richmond. 

The  mother  of  the  earl  of  Richmond,  afterwards  Henry 
the  Seventh,  on  the  death  of  her  first  husband,  Edmund 
Tudor,  was  married  to  Lord  Stanley. 

"  Ah,  gentle  villain,  i.  e.,  high  bom  villain,  of  genti* 
blood 


NOTES  TO  KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


j»  Jf^ert  thou  not  banishtd  on  pain  of  death  / 

After  the  battle  of  Tewkesbury,  in  May,  1471,  Queen 
Margaret  was  confined  in  the  Tower,  from  whence  she 
was  ransomed  by  her  father  Eeignier,  in  1475 ;  she  re- 
turned to  France,  and  died  there  in  1482.  The  present 
Bcene  is  in  1477  or  1478,  and  her  introduction  is  an  his- 
torical anachronism. 

"  Covld  all  but  answer /or  that  peevish  hrat! 

Mr.  M.  Mason  would  read — could  all  not,  &c<,  an  emen- 
dation which  seems  essential  to  the  sense  of  the  passage. 

"  Thou  elvish-marked,  abortive,  rooting  hog  / 

Eichard's  arms  bore  the  device  of  a  boar ;  Margaret,  in 
allusion  to  this,  contemptuously  calls  him  hog,  and  adds 
tie  epithet  rooting  to  signify  his  destructive  nature. 

"  With  that  grim  ferryman. 

Charon,  who  is  fabled  to  have  rowed  the  souls  of  the 
dead  over  the  rivers  Styx  and  Acheron  to  the  infuruai 
regions.  He  was  represented  as  a  robust  old  man,  ex- 
tremely ugly,  havnig  piercing  eyes,  and  a  long  white 
beard.  As  he  demanded  an  obolus  lor  uis  trouble,  it 
became  a  custom  among  the  ancients  to  place  a  piece  of 
money  under  the  tongue  of  a  corpse  to  satisfy  the  wishes 
of  its  grim  guide. 

J»  The  costard,  i.  o..  the  head. 

'"'  Before.  I  be  convict  Oy  coune  of  law. 

In  attributing  the  death  ot  Clarenofl  to  Richard,  Shakes- 
peare followed  the  current  reports  of  his  own  time.  But 
Clarence  was  not  put  to  death  without  trinl  or  condemna- 
tion; he  was  tried  and  found  guilty  by  his  peers,  and  re- 
ceived sentence  on  the  7th  of  February.  On  the  18th  of 
the  same  month,  or.  according  to  other  authorities,  on  the 
11th  of  March,  i^  was  reported  that  the  di:ke  had  died  in 
the  Tower,  A  '•nmour  ran  that  h«  h.nd  jcen  murdered, 
and  suspicion  fell  upon  the  duke  of  Gloster.  bui  u>./  evi- 
dence exists  to  nrove  him  the  criminal. 

■"  yi*  forfeit,  sovereign,  if  my  strvanta  itfe. 
Be  means  the  remission  of  the  forfeit. 

«  MJnter  the  JMictw-ss  ot  fork.. 

Cecily,  daughter  of  I'alph  Neville,  tirsi  Earl  of  West- 
moreland, and  widow  of  Kic  larrl  Duko  of  i'ork,  who  was 
killed  at  the  battle  of  VVakefiela,  in  i46o.  She  survived 
her  husband  thirty-five  years. 

«'  Forthwith  from  Ludloio  the  young  prince  be  fetched. 

At  the  death  of  King  Edward,  '.he  young  prince,  then 
a  boy  of  thirteen,  was  living  at  Ludlow  Cattle,  under 
the  care  of  his  maternal  uncle  the  Earl  of  Rivers.  He 
had  been  sent  there  by  the  king  to  see  justice  done  in 
the  marches  ;  and  by  the  authority  o*"  his  presence,  to 
restrain  the  outrages  and  savage  conduct  of  the  Welsh- 
men. 

«<  Last  night,  I  heard,  they  lay  at  Stony-Stratford ; 
And  at  Northampton  they  do  rest  to-night, 

Stony-Stratford  is  nearer  to  I^ondon  than  Northampton; 
132 


but  Richard,  who  was  in  the  marches  of  Scotland  when  he 
heard  of  Edward's  death,  hastened  to  London,  and  arrived 
at  Northampton  the  day  that  his  nephew  reached  Stony 
Stratford,  from  which  place  he  carried  the  young  king 
back  to  Northampton,  where  he  treacherously  seized  Rivers, 
Grey,  Vaughan,  and  Hawse. 

»» I  say,  without  characters,  fam^  lives  long. 

Thus,  lik*  the  formal  vice,  iniquity,  f  Aside. 

I  moralize  two  meanings  in  one  word. 

The  prince  having  heard  part  of  the  former  line,  asks 
Richard  what  he  says  ? — who,  to  deceive  him,  preserves  in 
his  reply  the  latter  words  of  the  line,  but  substitutes  others 
at  the  beginning  of  it,  of  a  different  import  from  those  he 
had  uttered.  He  then  adds  to  himself,  "  1  moralize,"  that 
is,  refine  upon  what  I  have  uttered  ;  convey  two  meanings 
in  one  word  or  sentence.  'She  formal  vice  was  the  buffoon 
or  jester  of  the  old  English  interludes,  who  was  probably 
an  equivocator,  hiding  profane  or  obscene  remarks  under 
a  mock  air  of  morality. 

""  For  we  to-m/rrrow  hold  divided  eouneiU. 

That  is,  we  hold  a  private  consultation,  separate  from  the 
known  and  public  council.  The  latter  was  held  in  the 
Tower,  but  a  private  council  of  Eichard's  friends  met  con- 
stantly at  his  residence  in  Crosby-place. 

^  To-night  the  boar  had  rased  off  his  helm. 

By  the  boar  is  meant  Gloster,  from  his  having  a  boar  for 
his  cognizance.  The  word  rased,  or  rashed,  wo^s  used  to 
describe  the  injuries  done  by  a  boar,  such  as  tearing  and 
mangling  with  hia  tusks. 

«6  Enter  Ratclif,  with  a  guard,  conducting  Rivers,  Grey,  dtc. 

The  Earl  of  Rivers  was  the  Queen's  brother ;  Sir  Richard 
Grey,  her  son;  she  has  been  deservedly  pitied  for  losing 
her  children,  but  the  deaths  of  her  other  kindred  appear 
to  have  been  forgotten  in  the  general  slaughters  and  troubles 
of  the  lime. 

»♦  And  wants  but  nomination. 

Phat  is,  the  only  tiling  wanting,  is  the  appointment  of  a 
particular  day  for  the  ceremony. 

»  Thr't  iimss  to-day  my  foot-cloth  horse  did  stumble. 

i  or  a  horse  to  stariible  was  anciently  esteemed  an  omen 
01  evil  to  the  rider.  So,  in  The  Honest  Lawyer  :—'^  Ami 
just  at  the  threshold  Master  Bromley  stumbled.  Signs  I 
signs  !" 

31  Enter  Gloster  and  Buckingham,  in  rusty  armour,  marvel- 
lous ill-favoured. 

Why  Gloster  and  Buckingham  should  enter  in  this  sin- 
gular apparel,  does  not  readily  appear  from  the  play,  but 
the  reason  is  thus  clearly  given  in  Holinshed,  who  was 
Shakespeare's  historical  authority  :—"  The  Protector,  im- 
mediately after  dinner,  intending  to  set  some  colour  upon 
the  matter,  sent  in  all  haste  for  many  substantial  men  out 
of  the  citie  into  the  Tower;  and  at  their  coming,  himselfe, 
with  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  stood  harnessed  in  old  ill- 
faring  briganders,  such  as  no  man  should  wcene  that  they 
would  vouchsafe  to  have  put  upon  their  backes,  except 
that  some  sudden  necessitie  had  constreined  them." 

1049 


NOTES  TO  KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


"  /  mean  his  conversation  with  Shore's  wife. 

That  is,  familiar  intercourse.  Tlie  phrase,  criminal  con- 
versation, is  still  in  use 

'5  Only  for  saying — he  would  make  his  son 
Heir  to  the  crown. 

This  is  an  historical  fact;  the  object  of  this  shameful 
granny  was  one  Walker,  a  substantial  citizen  and  grocer, 
at  the  Crown,  in  Cheapsicle,  whom  Edward  caused  to  be 
hanged  for  his  innocent  quibble. 

s*  To  draw  the  irats  of  Clarence  out  of  sight. 

The  children  of  Clarence  were  two,  Edward  and  Marga- 
ret ;  Edward,  Earl  of  Warwick,  was  confined  by  Kichard 
in  Sheritf-hutton  Castle,  and  afterwards  beheaded  by 
Henry  tlie  Seventh,  on  account  of  his  superior  title  to  the 
throne.  Margaret  was  married  to  Sir  Richard  de  la  Pole ; 
Bh'e  was  created  Countess  of  Salisbury  by  lleury  the  Eighth, 
and  finally  condemned  to  the  scatibld  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
by  that  regal  murderer,  from  motives  of  a  jealous  policy. 
She  refused  to  submit  to  the  sentence,  and  with  lier  grey 
hair  streaming  down  her  shoulders,  ran  wildly  about  the 
scaffold,  followed  by  the  executioner,  who  struck  at  her 
several  times  with  his  axe,  and  at  length  succeeded  in 
severing  her  head  from  her  body.  She  was  the  last  mem- 
ber of  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

=*  I  did ;  with  his  contract  with  Lady  Lncy. 

This  lady  was  not  the  wife,  but  the  mistress  of  Edward; 
jut  Comiues,  a  contemporary  historian,  says  that  Edward, 
previous  to  his  marriage  with  Lady  Grey,  was  married  by 
the  Bishop  of  Batli  to  Lady  Eleanor  Butler,  widow  of  Lord 
Butler  of  Sudeley,  and  daughter  to  the  great  Earl  of  Shrews- 
bury. On  this  ground  the  children  of  Edward  were  de- 
clared illegitimate  by  the  only  parliament  assembled  by 
Kiohard  the  Third. 

*'^  God  defend,  his  grace  should  say  us  nay  / 

This  obsequious  mayor  was  Edmund  Shaw,  brother  to 
Doctor  Shaw,  whom  Kichard  had  employed  to  prove  his 
title  to  the  crown  from  the  pulpit  at  Saint  Paul's  Cross. 

-'  JVere  red-Jujt  steel  to  sear  me  to  the  brain  ! 

She  alludes  to  the  ancient  mode  of  punishing  a  regicide 
or  other  notorious  criminal,  by  placing  a  crown  of  iron, 
heated  red-hot,  upon  his  head.  In  some  of  the  monkish 
accounts  of  a  place  of  future  torment,  a  burning  crown  is 
appropriated  to  those  who  have  deprived  any  lawful  mon- 
arch of  his  kingdom. 

*«  WitJi,  a  week  of  teen^  i.  e.,  of  sorrow. 

»»  The  loy  is  foolish. 

The  son  of  Clarence,  from  long  confinement  and  a  total 
oeglect  o/"  his  education,  became  idiotic. 

"  To  Brecknock. 

To  the  Castle  of  Brecknock,  la  Wales,  where  Backing- 
ham's  estate  lay. 

*»  The  liretagne  Bichmond. 

He  thus  scornfully  alludes  to  Richmond,  because  that 
1060 


prince  resided  for  a  length  of  time  in  a  kind  of  honour- 
able custody  at  the  court  of  Francis  the  Second,  Duke  of 
Bretagne. 

*»  Decline  all  this,  i.  e.,  run  through  all  this  from  first  to 
last- 

*'  Faith,  none,  but  Humphrey  Hour. 

Many  conjectures  have  been  penned  respecting  the  partj 
here  alluded  to.  Malone  says,  "  1  believe  nothing  more 
than  a  quibble  was  meant.  In  our  poet's  twentieth  sonnet 
we  find  a  similar  conceit;  a  quibble  between  hues  (colours) 
and  Hughes  (formerly  spelt  Hicoes),  the  person  addressed." 

■**  Melenting  fool,  and  sJtallow,  changing  woman. 

"  Such,"  says  Steevens,  "  was  the  real  character  of  this 
queen-dowager,  who  would  have  married  her  daughter  tc 
King  Kichard,  and  did  all  in  her  power  to  alienate  the  Mar- 
quis of  Dorset,  her  son,  from  the  Earl  of  Kichmond." 

<6  Is  with  a  mighty  power  landed  at  Milford. 

Eichmond  landed  at  Milford  Haven  with  an  army  not 
exceeding  five  thousand  men,  and  of  these,  not  above  two 
thousand  were  English. 

<•  Keeps  his  regiment,  i.  e.,  remains  with  it. 

"  Ws  nine  o'clock. 

The  quarto  reads, — it  is  six  of  the  clock;  full  supper 
time.  This  was  more  in  accordance  with  the  customs  of 
the  period,  when,  indeed,  to  sup  at  nine  would  have  been 
a  remarkable  incident.  At  this  time  breakfast  was  usually 
taken  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  dinner  at  ten,  and 
supper  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  A  fourth  meal,  entitled 
liveries,  consisting  of  a  cold  collation,  was  taken  in  bed 
about  eight  or  nine  in  the  evening. 

*8  Give  me  a  watch. 

Eichard  may  request  either  an  instrument  to  toll  the 
time,  a  guard  for  his  tent,  or  a  watch-light  or  candle  to 
burn  by  him.  Mr,  Steevens  inclines  to  the  latter  interpre- 
tation, and  thinks  a  particular  kind  of  candle,  marked  out 
into  sections,  was  here  meant.  As  each  portion  of  this 
kind  of  candle  occupied  a  certain  time  in  burning,  it  sup- 
plied the  place  of  the  more  modern  instrument  by  which 
we  measure  the  hours. 


**  Look  thai  iny  staves  be  sound. 

Staves  are  the  wood  of  the  lances.  As  it  was  usual  to 
carry  several  of  them  iuto  the  field,  the  lightness  of  ^em 
was  a  matter  of  great  consequence. 

60  Saw^st  thou  t/te  melanclioly  Lord  Northumberland  t 

Richard  suspected  Northumberland,  and  oalla  him 
melancholy  because  he  seemed  apathetic  in  his  cause. 
Ho  had  good  reason  for  his  doubts,  for  Northumberland 
stood  idoof  from  the  contest,  and  afterwards  joined  the 
victor. 

"  Cock-shut  tijne,  i.  o.,  twilight. 


NOTES  TO  KING  RICHARD  THE  THIRD. 


'^^  By  thee  was  punched  full  of  deadly  holes. 

The  inelegant  expression,  punched,  appears  not  to  have 
been  so  common  in  our  poet's  time  as  at  present,  as  It  is 
ftLso  employed  by  Chapman  in  his  version  of  the  sixth 
Iliad:— 

With  a  goad  hepuncKd  each  furious  dame. 

"  ThU  and  Saint  George  to  loot. 

That  is,  this  is  the  order  of  our  battle,  which  promises 
success ;  and  beyond  this  is  the  protection  of  our  patron 
uint. 


**  And  then  as  we  luive  to' en  the  sacrarMnt. 

So,  in  Holinshed : — "  The  carle  himselfe  first  tooke  a  cor- 
porall  oth  on  his  honor,  promising  that  incontinent  after 
he  shuld  be  possessed  of  the  crowne  and  dignitie  of  the 
realme  of  England,  he  would  be  conjoined  in  matrimonie 
with  the  ladle  Elizabeth,  daughter  to  King  Edward  the 
Fourth." 

"  Abate  the  edge  of  traitors,  gracions  Zord, 
That  would  reduce 

To  (ibate,  is  to  lower,  depress,  subdue.  Heduee,  is  to 
bring  back,  an  obsolete  sense  of  the  word. 

lOftl 


ling  Ifnri]  tjj>  Cigjitji. 


T^HIS  drama  commences  in  the  twelfth  year  of  Henry's  reign,  with  the  arrest  of  the  duke  of  Buck 
ingham,  in  April,  1521,  and  terminates  with  the  birth  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  on  the  7th  o 
Beptoinber,  1533;  thus  including  a  period  of  twelve  years.  Queen  Katharine  lived  until  1536, 
three  years  after  the  birth  of  Elizabeth ;  but,  for  the  sake  of  dramatic  effect,  the  poet  anticipates  her 
death. 

Anne  Bullen  had  been  bred  in  the  gay  court  of  France,  and  when  she  attracted  th**  notice  of 
Henry,  was  in  her  twentieth  year.  Beautiful,  accomplished,  graceful,  and  vivacious,  the  amorous 
monarch  would  have  made  her  his  mistress,  but  to  this  the  young  lady  would  not  submit ;  and  it  is 
supposed  that  her  resolution  in  this  respect  was  probably  strengthened  by  a  statement  that  Henry 
had  seduced  her  sister,  and  then  abandoned  her  for  the  embraces  of  another.  But  in  encouraging 
the  addresses  of  Henry,  and  in  listening  to  proposals  which  she  knew  could  oniy  be  fulfilled  by  the 
degradation  of  the  queen,  her  mistress,  Anne  was  guilty  of  a  greater  crime  than  she  would  have 
committed  in  becoming  the  paramour  of  the  tyrant.  But  the  punishment  of  her  ingratitude  hung 
trembling  over  her  devoted  head — her  career  of  triumph  was  but  a  brief  one.  Not  four  months 
after  the  death  of  Katharine,  Anne  Bullen  was  doomed.  Henry's  libidinous  gaze  was  fascinated  by 
one  of  her  maids  of  honour,  and  he  accused  the  queen  of  adultery,  a  crime  of  which  it  is  most  probable 
that  she  was  innocent — but  the  freedom  and  gaiety  of  her  manners  were  twisted  into  evidence  against 
her,  and  the  royal  profligate  signed  the  warrant  for  her  death.  The  beautiful  neck  which  he  had 
embraced  was  mangled  on  the  scaffold,  and  the  luxuriant  tresses  which  had  been  his  delight  and 
admiration  dat  bled  in  blood.  Anne  had  been  a  queen  but  three  years  ;  on  the  day  after  her  execu- 
tion, or  rather  murder,  the  pampered  ruffian  married  Jane  Seymour. 

The  two  most  finished  characters  in  this  play  are  Queen  Katharine  and  the  Cardinal  Woisey- 
Shakespeare  robes  the  former  with  great  dignity,  both  of  mind  and  person.  She  is  a  perfect  model 
of  a  noble  matron ;  patient  towards  her  sovereign  and  oppressor,  yet  jealous  of  her  own  dignity,  and 
in  her  deepest  dejection  relying  upon  eternal  justice — 

Heaven  is  above  all  yet ;  tliere  sita  a  Judge, 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

Her  death-scene  is  exceedingly  affecting;  her  generous  care  for  her  dependents,  touching  and  womanly ; 
the  poet  endeavours  to  compensate  for  her  trials  and  sufferings  here,  by  showing  her,  through  the 
means  of  a  dream,  at  the  very  portals  of  paradise.  Wolsey  is  a  singular  compound  of  opposing 
qualities,  grasping,  yet  profusely  liberal ;  supercilious  and  haughty,  yet  parasitical  and  mean ;  cour- 
ageous and  capable  in  prosperity,  yet  timid  and  helpless  in  adversity.  His  talent  for  magnificence 
amounts  to  genius ;  he  gives  way  to  pleasure,  is  gay  and  cheerful ;  he  covers  his  craftiness  with  an 
air  of  blunt  frankness.  The  avarice  of  the  king  urged  Wolsey  to  impose  unprecedented  taxes  on  the 
people,  and  paved  the  way  for  his  fall.  Then  he  is  at  once  crushed,  and  grovels  in  the  earth — the 
proud  cardinal,  with  his  princely  palaces  and  his  kingly  retinue,  sinks  instantly  into  the  abject  and 
supplicating  priest.     Then  follows  his  compelled  and  questionable  repentance,  and  in  the  anguish  of 

1058 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


his  spirit  he  utters  that  memorable  sentence  which  Shakespeare,  recognising  as  earnest  and  passionate 
poetry  which  no  art  could  exalt,  took  from  the  lips  of  the  fallen  statesman,  "  Had  I  but  served  my 
God  as  diligently  as  I  have  served  the  king,  he  would  not  have  given  me  over  in  my  grey  hairs." 
The  noble  advice  which  Wolsey,  after  his  fall,  gives  to  Cromwell,  had  not  been  the  guide  of  his  own 
C'tnduct,  but  it  is  natural  in  a  declining  statesman  to  preach  lofty  principles,  and  even  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  had  practised  them.  The  two  opposite  estimates  of  his  character  by  Queen  Katharine 
and  hei  attendant  Griffith,  after  the  cardinal's  death,  are  profound  analyzations  of  a  remarkable  mind, 
and  show  what  opposing  portraits  of  the  same  object  may  be  taken  from  different  points  of  view. 
After  praise  and  blame  cometh  the  truth,  and  Shakespeare  has  given  us  a  singularly  accurate  picture 
of  the  luxurious  and  powerful  cardinal.  Whatever  were  Wolsey's  faults,  it  is  probable  that  he  re- 
strained the  tyranny  of  the  kmg,  for  Henry  did  not  plunge  into  his  revolting  cruelties  until  after  the 
death  of  his  great  minister. 

One  thing  which  strikes  the  reader  of  this  drama  is  the  slavish  meanness  of  the  nobility,  in 
comparison  with  their  turbulent  defiance  of  the  crown  during  the  reign  of  the  peaceful  Henry  the 
Sixth.  Indeed  this  play  has  a  far  more  modern  air  and  appearance  than  its  predecessors ;  at  the 
period  to  which  it  refers,  society  was  in  a  transition  state  ;  the  iron  barons  of  the  old  age  had  passed 
away,  and  the  birth  of  our  intellectual  era  was  rapidly  approaching. 

I  cannot  conclude  this  notice  without  directing  attention  to  the  exquisite  adulation  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  with  which  it  terminates  ;  a  piece  of  flattery  which  may  be  excused  on  account  of  its  ele- 
gance and  appropriateness.  The  few  lines  introduced  into  it,  in  eulogy  of  James  the  First,  are  sup- 
posed to  be  the  work  of  Ben  Jonson. 

Malone  attributes  the  production  of  this  play  to  the  year  1601 — two  years  previous  to  the  death 
the  poet's  patron,  Elizabeth. 

1064 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


King  Henry  the  Eighth. 

Appears,  Act  I.  bc.  2 ;  sc.  i.    Act  11.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  III. 

BC.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2  ;  sc.  4. 

Cardinal  Wolsey. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4. 

Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Cardinal  Campeius. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Capucius,  Ambassador  to  the  Emperor  Charles. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Cranmer,  an  Agent  of  the  King,  afterwards  Arch- 
bishop q/"  Canterbury. 
ars,  Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4. 


Duke  of  Norfolk. 

Appears,  AclLscl.    Actll.  sc.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  2.   Act IV. 

sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Duke  of  Buckingham. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Duke  of  Suffolk. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc  2.    Act  III.  sc.  2.   Act  IV. 

PC.  1.    Act  V.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  so.  4. 

Earl  of  Surrey. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Gardiner,  a  Creature  of  Wolsey's,  afterwards 

Bishop  o/"  Winchester. 
Afpears,  Act  11.  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc,  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Bishop  of  Lincoln. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4. 

Lord  Abergavenny. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1. 

Lord  Sands. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  b .;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Sir  Henry  Guildford. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4. 

Sir  Ihomas  Lovell. 
Appturt,  Aot  i   .*o.  3 ;  no.  8 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III. 

«c  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

!^m  Antony  Denny. 
Appears,  A3t  V.  sc.  1. 

Sir  Nicholas  Vaux. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Cromwell,  an  Attendant  on  Wolsey. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 


Lord  Chamberlain. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8.    Act  HL 

sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Lord  Chancellor. 
^^«a?'»,  Act  IV.  bs.  1.    ActV.  BC.  2. 

Griffith,  Gentleman-  Usher  to  Queen  Katharine. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Other  Gentlemen. 
Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

Secretaries  to  Wolsey. 
Appeal,  Act  I.  so.  1. 

Doctor  Butts,  Physician  to  the  King. 
Appears,  Act  V.  so.  2. 

Garter  King-at-Arms. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Surveyor  to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2. 

Brandon  and  a  Sergeant-at-Arms. 
Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  1. 

Door-keeper  of  the  Council-chamber. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Porter  and  his  Man. 
Appear,  Act  V.  sc.  8. 

A  Crier. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  4. 

Page  to  the  Bishop  of  Winchester. 
Appears,  Act  V.  so.  i . 

Queen  Katharine,  Wife  to  King  Henry,  after- 
wards divorced. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act 
IV.  sc.  2. 

Anne  Bullen,  her  Maid  of  Honour^  afterwards 

Queen. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

An  Old  Lady,  Friend  to  Anne  Bullen. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  3.    Act  V.  bo.  1. 

Patience,  an  Attendant  on  Queen  Katharine. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Several  Lords  and  Ladies,  Women  attending  upon 
the  Queen,  Spirits  which  appear  to  her,  Scribes, 
Officers,  Guards,  and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE, — Chiefly  in  London  and  Westminster 
once  at  Kimbolton. 

1055 


ling  Ifnrij  tlje  Cigjitji. 


PEOLOGUE. 


I  COME  no  more  to  make  you  laugh ;  things  now, 

That  boar  a  weighty  and  a  serious  brow, 

Sad,  high,  and  working,  full  of  state  and  woe. 

Such  noble  scenes  as  draw  the  eye  to  flow, 

We  now  present.     Those  that  can  pity,  here 

May,  if  they  think  it  well,  let  fall  a  tear ; 

The  subject  will  deserve  it.     Such,  as  give 

Their  money  out  of  hope  they  may  believe, 

May  here  find  truth  too.     Those,  that  come  to  see 

Only  a  show  or  two,  and  so  agree. 

The  play  may  pass ;  if  they  be  still,  and  willing, 

I  '11  undertake,  may  see  away  their  shilling 

Richly  in  two  short  hours.     Only  they. 

That  come  to  hear  a  merry,  bawdy  play, 

A  noise  of  targets ;  or  to  see  a  fellow 

tn  a  long  motely  coat,  guarded  with  yellow,' 


Will  be  deceiv'd  :  for,  gentle  hearers,  know 
To  rank  our  chosen  truth  with  such  a  show 
As  fool  and  fight  is,  beside  forfeiting 
Our  own  brains,  and  the  opinion  that  we  bring, 
(To  make  that  only  true  we  now  intend,) 
Will  leave  us  never  an  understanding  friend. 
Therefore,  for  goodness'  sake,  and  as  you  are  knowa 
The  first  and  happiest  hearers  of  the  town. 
Be  sad,  as  we  would  make  ye :  Think,  ye  see 
The  very  persons  of  our  noble  story. 
As  they  were  living ;  think,  you  see  them  great, 
And  follow'd  with  the  general  throng,  and  sweat, 
Of  thousand  friends ;  then,  in  a  moment,  see 
How  soon  this  mightiness  meets  misery ! 
And,  if  you  can  be  merry  then,  I  '11  say, 
A  man  may  weep  upon  his  wedding  day.* 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I. — ^London.     An  Ante-chamber  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  NoRroLK,  at  one  Door  ;  at  the 
other,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  and  the  Lord 
Abergavenny. 

Buck.  Good  morrow,  and  well  met.    How  have 
you  done, 
Since  last  we  saw  in  France  ? 

Nor.  I  thank  your  grace: 

Healthful ;  and  ever  since  a  fresh  admirer 
Of  what  I  saw  there. 

Buck.  An  untimely  ague 

1066 


Stay'd  me  a  prisoner  in  my  chamber,  when 
Those  suns  of  glory,  those  two  lights  of  men, 
Met  in  the  vale  of  Arde. 

Nor.  'Twixt  Guynes  and  Arde : 

I  was  then  present,  saw  them  saliite  on  horseback ; 
Beheld  them,  when  they  lighted,  how  they  clung 
In  their  embracement,  as  they  grew  together ; 
Which  had  they,  what  four  thron'd  ones  could 

have  weigh'd 
Such  a  compounded  one  ? 

Bwk.  All  the  whole  time 

I  was  my  chamber's  prisoner. 

Nor.  Then  you  lost 


ACT.  I. 


KING  nEXRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENB   I. 


The  view  of  earthly  glory :  Men  might  say, 
Till  this  time,  pomp  was  single  ;  but  now  married 
To  one  above  itself.^     Each  following  day 
Became  the  next  day's  master,  till  the  last, 
Made  former  wonders  it's  :  To-day,  the  French, 
All  clinquant,^  all  in  gold,  like  heathen  gods, 
Shone  down  the  English  ;  and,  to-morrow,  they 
Made  Britain,  India:  every  man,  that  stood, 
Show'd  like  a  mine.     Their  dwarfish  pages  were 
As  cherubims,  all  gilt :  the  madams  too. 
Not  us'd  to  toil,  did  almost  sweat  to  bear 
The  pride  upon  them,  that  their  very  labour 
Was  to  them  as  a  painting:  now  this  mask 
Was  cry'd  incomparable  ;  and  the  ensuing  night 
Made  it  a  fool,  and  beggar.     The  two  kings. 
Equal  in  lustre,  were  now  best,  now  worst. 
As  presence  did  present  them  ;  him  in  eye. 
Still  him  in  praise :  and,  being  present  both, 
'T  was  said,  they  saw  but  one  ;  and  no  discerner 
Durst  wag  his  tongue  in  censure.     When  these 

suns 
(For  so  they  phrase  them,)  by  their  heralds  chal- 

leng'd 
The  noble  spirits  to  arms,  they  did  perform 
Beyond  thought's  compass  ;  that  former  fabulous 

story, 
Being  now  seen  possible  enough,  got  credit, 
That  Bevis  was  believ'd.* 

Jiuck.  O,  you  go  far. 

JVor.  As  I  belong  to  worship,  and  affect 
In  honour  honesty,  the  tract  of  every  thing 
Would  by  a  good  discourser  lose  some  life, 
Which  action's  self  was  tongue  to.  All  was  royal ; 
To  the  disposing  of  it  nought  rebell'd. 
Order  gave  each  thing  view  ;  the  ofHce  did 
Distinctly  his  full  function. 

Buck.  Who  did  guide, 

I  mean,  who  set  the  body  and  the  limbs 
Of  this  great  sport  together,  as  you  guess  ? 

Hor.  One,  certes,  that  promises  no  element" 
In  such  a  business. 

Buck.  I  pray  you,  who,  my  lord? 

Nor.  All  tliis  was   order'd  by   the  good   dis- 
cretion 
Of  the  right  reverend  cardinal  of  York. 

Buck.  The  devil  speed  him  I  no  man's  pie  is 
free'd 
from  his  ambitious  finger.     What  had  he 
To  do  in  these  fierce  vanities  ?     I  wonder, 
That  such  a  keech  can  with  his  very  bulk 
Take  up  the  rays  o'  the  beneficial  sun, 
And  keep  it  from  the  earth. 

1-33 


Nor.  Surely,  sir, 

There  's   in  him  stuff  that  puts  him  to   these 

ends : 
For,  being  not  propp'd  by  ancestry,  (whose  grac/j 
Chalks  successors  their  way,)  nor  call'd  upon 
For  high  feats  done  to  the  crown  ;  neither  allied 
To  eminent  assistants,  but,  spider-like. 
Out  of  his  self-drawing  web,  he  gives  us  note. 
The  force  of  his  own  merit  makes  his  way  ; 
A  gift  that  heaven  gives  for  him,  which  buys 
A  place  next  to  the  king. 

Aber.  I  cannot  tell 

What  heaven  hath  given  him,  let  some  grarei 

eye 
Pierce  into  that ;  but  I  can  see  his  pride 
Peep  through  each  part  of  him  :  Whence  has  he 

that  ? 
If  not  from  hell,  the  devil  is  a  niggard  ; 
Or  has  given  all  before,  and  he  begins 
A  new  hell  in  himself. 

Buck.  Why  the  devil. 

Upon  this  French  going-out,  took  he  upon  him. 
Without  the  privity  o'  the  king,  to  appoint 
Who  should  attend  on  him  ?  He  makes  up  the  file 
Of  all  the  gentry  ;  for  the  most  part  such 
Too,  whom  as  great  a  charge  as  little  honour 
He  meant  to  lay  upon  :  and  his  own  letter. 
The  honourable  board  of  council  out, 
Must  fetch  him  in  he  papers.' 

Aber.  I  do  know 

Kinsmen  of  mine,  three  at  the  least,  that  have 
By  this  so  sicken'd  their  estates,  that  never 
They  shall  abound  as  formerly. 

Buck,  O,  many 

Have  broke  their  backs  with  laying  manors  on 

them 
For  this  great  journey.     What  did  this  vanity. 
But  minister  communication  of 
A  most  poor  issue  ? 

Nor.  Grievingly  I  think. 

The  peace  between  the  French  and  lis  not  values 
The  cost  that  did  conclude  it. 

Buck.  Every  man, 

After  the  hideous  storm  that  follow'd,'  was 
A  thing  inspir'd  ;  and,  not  consulting,  broke 
Into  a  general  prophecy, — That  this  tempest. 
Dashing  the  garment  of  this  peace,  aboded 
The  sudden  breach  on  't. 

Noi'.  Which  is  budded  out  -, 

For  France,  hath  flaw'dthe  league,  and  hain  «♦- 

tach'd 
Our  merchants'  goods  at  Bourdeaux. 

1067 


AOr  I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


Aher.  Is  it  therefore 

The  ambassador  is  silenc'd  ? 

Nor.  Marry,  is 't. 

Aber.  A  proper  title  of  a  peace  ;  and  purchas'd 
At  a  superfluous  rate ! 

Buck.  Why,  all  this  business 

Our  reverend  cardinal  carried. 

Nor.  'Like  it  your  grace, 

The  state  takes  notice  of  the  private  difference 
Betwixt  you  and  the  cardinal.     I  advise  you, 
(And  take  it  from  a  heart  that  wishes  towards 

you 
Honour  and  plenteous  safety,)  that  you  read 
The  cardinal's  malice  and  his  potency 
Together  :  to  consider  further,  that 
What  his  high  hatred  would  effect,  wants  not 
A  minister  in  his  power :  You  know  his  nature, 
That  he  's  revengeful ;  and  I  know,  his  sword 
Hath  a  sharp  edge :  it 's  long,  and,  it  may  be  said, 
It  reaches  far  ;  and  where  't  will  not  extend. 
Thither  he  darts  it.     Bosom  up  my  counsel. 
You  '11  find  it  wholesome.     Lo,  where  comes  that 

rock, 
'"bat  I  advise  your  shunning. 

Enter  Cardinal  Wolsey,  {the  Purse  borne  before 
him,)  certain  of  the  Guard,  and  two  Secretaries 
with  Papers.  The  Cardinal  in  his  Passage 
fixeth  his  Eye  on  Buckingham,  and  Bucking- 
ham on  him,  both  full  of  disdain. 

Wol.  The  duke  of  Buckingham's  surveyor  ?  ha  ? 
Where 's  his  examination  ? 
\»t  Seer.  Here,  so  please  you. 

Wol.  Is  he  in  person  ready  ? 
1st  Seer.  Ay,  please  your  grace. 

Wol.  Well,  we  shall  then   know  more ;    and 
Buckingham 
Snail  lessen  this  big  look. 

[Exeunt  Wol.  and  Train. 
Buck.    This  butcher's  cur  is   venom-mouth'd, 
and  I 
Have  not  the  power  to  muzzle  him  ;  therefore, 

best 
Not  wake  him  in  his  slumber.     A  beggar's  book 
Out- worths  a  noble's  blood.^ 

Nor.  AVhat,  are  you  chaf  d  ? 

Ask  God  for  temperance ;   that 's  the  appliance 

only. 
Which  your  disease  requires. 

Utick.  I  read  in  his  looks 

Matter  against  me ;  and  his  eye  revil'd 
Me,  as  his  abject  object :  at  this  instant 
1058 


He  bores  me  with  some  trick :  He 's  gone  to  the 

king ; 
I  '11  follow,  and  out-stare  him. 

^  Nor.  Stay,  my  lord, 

And  let  your  reason  with  your  choler  question 
What 't  is  you  go  about :  To  climb  steep  hills, 
Requires  slow  pace  at  first :  Anger  is  like 
A  full-hot  horse ;  who  being  allow'd  his  way. 
Self-mettle  tires  him.     Not  a  man  in  England 
Can  advise  me  like  you  :  be  to  yourself 
As  you  would  to  your  friend. 

Buck.  I  '11  to  the  king ; 

And  from  a  mouth  of  honour  quite  cry  down 
This  Ipswich  fellow's  insolence ;  or  proclaim, 
There  's  difference  in  no  persons. 

Nor.  Be  advis'd ; 

Heat  not  a  furnace  for  your  foe  so  hot 
That  it  do  singe  yourself:  We  may  outrun, 
By  violent  swiftness,  that  which  we  run  at. 
And  lose  by  over-running.     Know  you  not, 
The  fire,  that  mounts  the  liquor  till  it  run  o'er. 
In  seeming  to  augment  it,  wastes  it?    Be  advis'd; 
I  say  again,  there  is  no  English  soul 
More  stronger  to  direct  you  than  yourself; 
If  with  the  sap  of  reason  you  would  quench, 
Or  but  allay,  the  fire  of  passion. 

Buck.  Sir, 

I  am  thankful  to  you ;  and  I  '11  go  along 
By  your  prescription  : — but  this  top-proud  fellow 
(Whom  from  the  flow  of  gall  I  name  not,  but 
From  sincere  motions,)  by  intelligence. 
And  proofs  as  clear  as  founts  in  July,  when 
We  see  each  grain  of  gravel,  I  do  know 
To  be  corrupt  and  treasonous. 

Nor.  Say  not,  treasonous. 

Buck.  To  the  king  I  '11  say  't ;  and  make  mv 
vouch  as  strong 
As  shore  of  rock.     Attend.     This  holy  fox, 
Or  wolf,  or  both,  (for  he  is  equal  ravenous. 
As  he  is  subtle ;  and  as  prone  to  mischief. 
As  able  to  perform  it :  his  mind  and  place 
Infecting  one  another,  yea,  reciprocally,) 
Only  to  ^low  his  pomp  as  well  in  France 
As  here  at  home,  suggests  the  king  our  master 
To  this  last  costly  treaty,  the  interview. 
That  swallow'd  so  much  treasure,  and  like  a  glafcs 
Did  bieak  i'  the  rinsing. 

Nor.  'Faith,  and  so  it  did. 

Buck.  Pray,  give  me  favour,  sir.     This  cimning 
cardinal 
The  articles  o'  the  combinaticn  drew. 
As  himself  pleas'd  ;  and  they  were  ratified, 


-'  I 


ACT    I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCBNB   n. 


As  he  cried,  Tb^j  ,et  be:  to  as  much  end, 
As  give  a  crutch  to  the  dead :  But  our  count- 
cardinal 
Has  done  this,  and  't  is  well ;  for  worthy  Wolsey, 
Who  cannot  err,  he  did  it.     Now  this  follows, 
(Which,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  kind  of  puppy 
To  the  old  dam,  treason,) — Charles  the  emperor. 
Under  pretence  to  see  the  queen  his  aunt, 
(For  't  was,  indeed,  his  colour  ;  but  he  came 
To  whisper  Wolsey,)  here  makes  visitation : 
His  fears  were,  that  the  interview,  betwixt 
England  and  France,  might,  through  their  amity. 
Breed  him  some  prejudice;  for  from  this  league 
Peep'd  harms  that  menac'd  him  :  He  privily 
Deals  with  our  cardinal ;  and,  as  I  trow, — 
Which  I  do  well ;  for,  I  am  sure,  the  emperor 
Paid    ere   he    promis'd ;    whereby   his   suit  was 

granted,. 
Ere  it  was  ask'd  ; — but  when  the  way  was  made. 
And  pav'd  with  gold,  the  emperor  thus  desir'd  ; — 
That  he  would  please  to  alter  the  king's  course. 
And  break   the    foresaid,  peace.      Let   the   king 

know, 
(As  soon  he  shall  by  me,)  that  thus  the  cardinal 
Does  buy  and  sell  his  honour  as  he  pleases, 
And  for  his  own  advantage. 

Nor.  I  am  sorry 

To  hear  this  of  him  ;  and  could  wish,  he  were 
Something  mistaken  in  't. 

Buck.  No,  not  a  syllable ; 

I  do  pronounce  him  in  that  very  shape, 
He  shall  appear  in  proof. 

Enter  Brandon  *,  a  Sergeant-at-Arms  before  him, 
and  two  w  three  of  the  Guard. 

Bran.  Your  office,  sergeant ;  execute  it 

Serff.  Sir, 

My  lord  the  duke  of  Buckingham,  and  earl 
Of  Hereford,  Stafford,  and  Northampton,  I 
Arrest  thee  of  high  treason,  in  the  name 
Of  our  most  sovereign  king. 

Btick.  Lo  you,  my  lord, 

The  net  has  fall'n  upon  me ;  I  shall  perish 
Under  device  and  practice. 

Bran.  I  am  sorry 

To  see  you  ta'en  from  liberty,  to  look  on 
The  business  present :  'T  is  his  highness'  pleasure. 
You  shall  to  the  Tower. 

Buck.  It  will  help  me  nothing. 

To  plead  mine  innocence ;  for  that  die  is  on  me, 
Whicb  makes  my  whitest  part  black.    The  will  of 
heaven 


Be  done  in  this  and  all  things ! — I  obey.— 

0  my  lord  Aberga'ny,  fare  you  well. 

Bran.  Nay,  he  must  bear  you  company  : — The 
king  [To  Abeb. 

Is  pleas'd,  you  shall  to  the  Tower,  till  you  know 
How  he  determines  further. 

Aber.  As  the  duke  said, 

The  will  of  heaven  be  done,  and  the  king's  pleasure 
By  me  obey'd. 

Bran.  Here  is  a  warrant  from 

The  king,  to  attach  lord  Montacute ;  and  the  bodies 
Of  the  duke's  confessor,  John  de  la  Court, 
One  Gilbert  Peck,  his  chancellor, — 

Buck.  So,  so ; 

These  are  the  limbs  of  the  plot :  No  more,  I  hope. 

Bran.  A  monk  o'  the  Chartreux. 

Buck.  O,  Nicholas  Hopkins  ? 

Bran.  He 

Buck.  My  surveyor  is  false ;  the  o'er-great  car 
dinal 
Hath  show'd  him  gold :  my  life  is  spann'd  already 

1  am  the  shadow  of  poor  Buckingham  ; 
Whose  figure  even  this  instant  cloud  puts  on. 
By  dark'ning  my  clear  sun. — My  lord,  farewell. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Cmincil- Chamber. 

Cornets.  Enter  King  Henry,  Cardinal  Wolsey, 
the  Lords  of  the  Council,  Sir  Thomas  Lovell, 
Officers,  and  Attendants.  The  King  enters 
leaning  on  the  Cardinal's  Shoulder. 

K.  Hen.  My  life  itself,  and  the  best  heart  of  it. 
Thanks  you  for  this  great  care  :  I  stood  i'  the  level 
Of  a  fuU-charg'd  confederacy,  and  give  thanks 
To  you  that  chok'd  it. — Let  be  call'd  before  us 
That  gentleman  of  Buckingham's :  in  person 
I  '11  hear  him  his  confessions  justify  ; 
And  point  by  point  the  treasons  of  his  master 
He  shall  again  relate. 

\The  King  takes  his  State.  The  Lords  of  the 
Council  take  their  several  Places.  The 
Card,  places  himself  under  the  King's 
Feet  on  his  right  Side. 

A  Noise  within,  crying,  "  Room  for  the  Queen.''^ 
Enter  the  Queen,  ushered  by  the  Dukes  of 
Norfolk  and  Suffolk  :  she  kneels.  The  Kino 
riseth  from  his  State,  takes  her  up,  kisses,  and 
placeth  her  by  him. 

Q.  Kath.  Nay,  we  must  longer  kneel ;  I  am  a 
suitor. 

1069 


Acrr  L 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCBNB   n. 


1  1 


K.  Hen.  Arise,  and  take  place  by  us : — Half 

your  suit 
Never  name  to  us ;  you  have  half  our  power  : 
The  other  moiety,  ere  you  ask,  is  given ; 
Repeat  your  will,  and  take  it. 

Q.  Kath.  Thank  your  majesty. 

That  you  would  love  yourself;  and,  in  that  love, 
Not  unconsider'd  leave  your  honour,  nor 
The  dignity  of  your  office,  is  the  point 
Of  my  petition. 

K.  Hen,  Lady  mine,  proceed. 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  solicited,  not  by  a  few, 
And  those  of  true  condition,  that  your  subjects" 
Are  in   great  grievance  :  there  have  been   com- 
missions 
Sent  down   among  them,  which  hath   flaw'd  the 

heart 
Of  all  their  loyalties  : — wherein,  although, 
My  good  lord  cardinal,  they  vent  reproaches 
Most  bitterly  on  you,  as  putter-on 
Of  these  exactions,  yet  the  king  our  master, 
(Whose  honour  heaven  shield  from  soil !)  even  he 

escapes  not 
Language  unmannerly,  yea,  such  which  breaks 
The  ties  of  loyalty,  and  almost  appears 
In  loud  rebellion. 

Nor.  Not  almost  appears, 

It  doth  appear :  for,  upon  these  taxations. 
The  clothiers  all,  not  able  to  maintain 
The  many  to  them  'longing,  have  put  off 
The  spinsters,  carders,  fullers,  weavers,  who, 
Unfit  for  other  life,  compell'd  by  hunger 
And  lack  of  other  means,  in  desperate  manner 
Daring  the  event  to  the  teeth,  are  all  in  uproar, 
And  Danger  serves  among  them. 

K.  Hen.  Taxation ! 

Wherein  ?  and  what  taxation? — My  lord  cardinal, 
You  that  are  blam'd  for  it  alike  with  us. 
Know  you  of  this  taxation  ? 

Wol.  Please  you,  sir, 

I  know  but  of  a  single  part,  in  aught 
Pertains  to  the  state  ;  and  front  but  in  that  file 
Where  others  toll  steps  with  me. 

Q.  Kath.  No,  my  lord, 

You  know  no  more  than  others:  but  you  frame 
Things,  that  are  known    alike;    which  are   not 

wholesome 
To  those  which  would  not  know  them,  and  yet 

must 
Perforce  be  their  acquaintance.     These  exactions. 
Whereof  my  sovereign  would  have  note,  they  are 
Most  pestilent  to  the  hearing;  and,  to  bear  them, 

1060 


The  back  is  sacrifice  to  the  load.     They  say, 
They  are  devis'd  by  you :  or  else  you  suffer 
Too  hard  an  exclamation. 

K.  Hen.  Still  exaction  ! 

The  nature  of  it  ?  In  what  kind,  let  's  know, 
Is  this  exaction  ? 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  much  too  venturous 

In  tempting  of  your  patience ;  but  am  bolden'd 
Under  your  promis'd  pardon.     The  subject's-  griei 
Comes  through  commissions,  which  compel  from 

each 
The  sixth  part  of  his  substance,  to  be  levied 
Without  delay  ;  and  the  pretence  for  this 
Is  nam'd,  your  wars  in  France  :  This  makes  bold 

mouths  : 
Tongues  spit  their  duties  out,  and   cold    hearts 

freeze 
Allegiance  in  them  ;  their  curses  now. 
Live  where  their  prayers  did ;  and  it  's  come  to 

pass. 
That  tractable  obedience  is  a  slave 
To  each  incensed  will.     I  would,  your  highness 
Would  give  it  quick  consideration,  for 
There  is  no  primer  business. 

K.  Hen.  By  my  life, 

This  is  against  our  pleasure. 

Wol.  And  for  me, 

I  have  no  further  gone  in  this,  than  by 
A  single  voice ;  and  that  not  pass'd  me,  but 
By  learned  approbation  of  the  judges. 
If  I  am  traduc'd  by  tongues,  which  neither  know 
My  faculties,  nor  person,  yet  will  be 
The  chronicles  of  my  doing, — let  me  say, 
'T  is  but  the  fate  of  place,  and  the  rough  brake 
That  virtue  must  go  through.   We  must  not  stinl 
Our  necessary  actions,  in  the  fear 
To  cope  malicious  censurers;  which  ever. 
As  ravenous  fishes,  do  a  vessel  follow 
That  is  new  trimm'd ;  but  benefit  no  furtlier 
Than  vainly  longing.     What  we  oft  do  best. 
By  sick  interpreters,  once  weak  ones,  is 
Not  ours,  or  not  allow'd ;  what  worst,  as  oft, 
Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 
'For  our  best  act.     If  we  shall  stand  still, 
In  fear  our  motion  will  be  mock'd  or  carp'd  at, 
We  should  take  root  here  where  we  sit,  or  sit 
State  statues  only. 

K.  Hen.  Things  done  well. 

And  with  a  care,  exempt  themselves  from  fear ; 
Things  done  without  example,  in  their  issue 
Are  to  be  fear'd.     Have  you  a  precedent 
Of  this  commission  ?  I  believe,  not  any. 


ACT  I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE    II. 


We  must  not  rend  our  subjects  from  our  laws, 
And  stick  tliem  in  our  will.     Sixth  part  of  each  ? 
A  trebling  contribution       Why,  we  take, 
From  every  tree,  lop,  bark,  and  part  o'  the  timber; 
And,  though  we  leave  it  with  a  root,  thus  hack'd, 
The  air  will  drink  the  sap.     To  every  county, 
Where  this  is  question 'd,  send  our  letters,  with 
Free  pardon  to  each  man  that  has  denied 
The  force  of  this  commission  :  Pray,  look  to  't ; 
I  put  it  to  your  care. 

Wol.  A  word  with  you. 

[To  the  Secretary. 
Let  there  be  letters  writ  to  every  shire. 
Of  the  king's  grace   and  pardon.     The   griev'd 

commons 
Hardly  conceive  of  me  ;  let  it  be  nois'd. 
That,  through  our  intercession,  this  revokement 
And  pardon  comes :  I  shall  anon  advise  you 
Further  in  the  proceeding.  [JExit  Secretary. 

Enter  Surveyor. 

Q.  Kath.  I  am  sorry,  that  the  duke  of  Buck- 
ingham 
Is  run  in  your  displeasure. 

K.  Hen.  It  grieves  man)'^ : 

The  gentleman  is  learn'd,  and  a  most  rare  speaker. 
To  nature  none  more  bound  ;  his  training  such. 
That  he  may  furnish  and  instruct  great  teachers, 
And  never  seek  for  aid  out  of  himself. 
Yet  see 

When  these  so  noble  benefits  shall  prove 
Not  well  dispos'd,  the  mind  growing  once  corrupt, 
They  turn  to  vicious  forms,  ten  times  more  ugly 
Than  ever  they  were  fair.     This  man  so  complete. 
Who  was  enroirj  'raongst  wonders,  and  when  we. 
Almost  with  ravish'd  list'ning,  could  not  find 
His  hour  of  speech  a  minute  ;  he,  my  lady, 
Hath  into  monstrous  habits  put  the  graces 
That  once  were  his,  and  is  become  as  black 
As  if  besmear'd  in  hell.    Sit  by  us  ;  you  shall  bear 
(This  was  his  gentleman  in  trust,)  of  him 
Things  to  strike  honour  sad. — Bid  him  recount 
The  fore-recited  practices  ;  whereof 
We  cannot  feel  too  little,  hear  too  much. 

Wol.    Stand  forth  ;  and  with  bold  spirit  relate 
what  you. 
Most  like  a  careful  subject,  have  collected 
Out  of  the  duke  of  Buckingham. 

K.  Hen.  Speak  freely. 

Surv.  First,  it  was  usual  with  him,  every  day 
It  would  infect  his  speech.  That  if  the  king 
Should  without  issue  die,  he  'd  carry  it  so 


To  make  the  sceptre  his  :  These  very  words 
I  have  heard  him  utter  to  his  son-in-law. 
Lord  Aberga'ny  ;  to  whom  by  oath  he  menac'd 
Revenge  upon  the  cardinal. 

Wol.  Please  your  highness,  not( 

This  dangerous  conception  in  this  point. 
Not  friended  by  his  wish,  to  your  high  person 
His  will  is  most  malignant ;  and  it  stretches 
Beyond  you,  to  your  friends. 

Q.  Kath.  My  learn'd  lord  cardinal, 

Deliver  all  with  charity. 

K.  Hen.  Speak  on  : 

How  grounded  he  his  title  to  the  crown. 
Upon  our  fail  ?  to  this  point  hast  thou  heard  him 
At  any  time  speak  aught  ? 

Surv.  He  was  brought  to  this 

By  a  vain  prophecy  of  Nicholas  Hopkins. 
K.  Hen.  What  was  that  Hopkins  ? 
Surv.  Sir,  a  Chartreux  friar, 

His  confessor ;  who  fed  him  every  minute 
With  words  of  sovereignty. 

K.  Hen.  How  know'st  thou  this  ? 

Surv.  Not  long  before  your  highness  sped  to 
France, 
The  duke  being  at  the  Rose,  within  the  parish 
Saint  Lawrence  Poultney,  did  of  me  demand 
What  was  the  speech  amongst  the  Londoners 
Concerning  the  French  journey  :  I  replied. 
Men  fear'd,  the  French  would  prove  perfidious., 
To  the  king's  danger.     Presently  the  duke 
Said,  'T  was  the  fear,  indeed  ;  and  that  he  doubted, 
'T  would  prove  the  verity  of  certain  words 
Spoke  by  a  holy  monk ;  "  that  oft,"  says  he, 
"  Hath  sent  to  me,  wishing  me  to  permit 
John  de  la  Court,  my  chaplain,  a  choice  hour 
To  hear  from  him  a  matter  of  some  moment : 
Whom  after  under  the  confession's  seal 
He  solemnly  had  sworn,  that,  what  he  spoke, 
My  chaplain  to  no  creature  living,  but 
To  me,  should  utter,  with  demure  confidence 
This  pausingly  ensu'd, — Neither  the  king,  nor  his 

heirs, 
(Tell  you  the  duke)  shall  prosper :  bid  him  strive 
To  gain  the  love  of  the  commonalty  ;  the  duke 
Shall  govern  England." 

Q.  Kath.  If  I  know  you  well, 

You  were  the  duke's  surveyor,  and  lost  your  ofBea 
On  the  complaint  o'   the  tenants :    Take   good 

heed, 
You  charge  not  in  your  spleen  a  noble  person. 
And  spoil  your  nobler  sou!     I  say,  take  heed; 
Yes,  heartily  beseech  you. 

lOCl 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


8CKNE  III. 


K.  Hen.  Let  him  on  : — 

Go  forward. 

Surv.  On  my  soul,  I  '11  speak  but  truth. 

I  told  my  lord  the  duke,  By  the  devil's  illusions 
The  monk  might  be  deceiv'd  ;  and  that  't  was 

dang'rous  for  him, 
To  ruminate  on  this  so  far,  until 
It  forg'd  him  some  design,  which,  being  believ'd. 
It  was  much  like  to  do  :  He  answer'd,  "  Tush  ! 
It  can  do  me  no  damage:"  adding  further, 
That,  had  the  king  iu  his  last  sickness  fail'd. 
The  cardinal's  and  sir  Thomas  Lovell's  heads 
Should  have  gone  off". 

K.  Hen.  Ha  !  what,  so  rank  ?  Ah,  ha ! 

There  's  mischief  in  this  man  : Canst  thou  say 

further  ? 

Surv.  I  can,  my  liege. 

Jt.  Hen.  Proceed. 

Surv.  Being  at  Greenwich, 

After  your  highness  had  reprov'd  the  duke 
About  sir  William  Blomer, — 

K.  Hen.  I  remember, 

Of  such  a  time  : — Being  my  servant  sworn. 

The  duke   retain'd   him  his. But  on  :  What 

hence? 

Sarv.  "  If,"   quoth   he,  "  I  for  this  had  been 
committed, 
As,  to  the  Tower,  I  thought, — I  would  have  play'd 
The  part  my  father  meant  to  act  upon 
The  usurper  Richard  ;'"  who,  being  at  Salisbury, 
Made   suit   to   come  in   his  presence ;    which,  if 

granted. 
As  he  made  semblance  of  his  duty,  would 
Have  put  his  knife  into  him." 

K^.  Hen.  A  giant  traitor ! 

Wol.  Now,  madam,  may  his  highness  live  in 
freedom. 
And  this  man  out  of  prison  ? 

Q.  Kath.  God  mend  all ! 

K.  Hen.  There  's  something  more  would  out  of 
thee  :  What  say'st  ? 

Surv.    After — "  the   duke    his    father," — with 
"  the  knife,"— 
He  stretch'd   him,   and,  with   one   hand   on  his 

dagger. 
Another  spread  on  his  breast,  mounting  his  eyes. 
He  did  dif^charge  a  horrible  oath  ;  whose  tenor 
Was, — Were  he  evil  us'd,  he  would  out-go 
His  father,  by  as  much  as  a  performance 
Does  an  irresolute  purpose. 

K.  Hen.  There  's  his  period, 

To  sheath  his  knife  in  us.     He  is  attach'd  ; 
1062 


Call  him  to  present  trial :  if  he  mav 
Find  mercy  in  the  law,  't  is  his ;  if  none, 
Let  him  not  seek  't  of  us  :  By  day  and  night, 
He  's  traitor  to  the  height.  [Exe^int. 

SCENE  III.— ^  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain  and  Lord  Sands. 

Cham.  Is  it  possible,  the  spells  of  France  should 
juggle 
Men  into  such  strange  mysteries  ? 

Sands.  New  customs, 

Though  they  be  never  so  ridiculous. 
Nay,  let  them  be  unmanly,  yet  are  foUow'd. 

Cham.  As  far  as  I  see,  all  the  good  our  English 
Have  got  by  the  late  voyage,  is  but  merely 
A  fit  or  two  o'  the  face ;"  but  they  are  shrewd 

ones  ; 
For  when    they  hold    them,  you  would    swear 

directly. 
Their  very  noses  had  been  counsellors 
To  Pepin,  or  Clotharius,  they  keep  state  so. 
Sands.  They  have  all  new  legs,  and  lame  ones ; 
one  would  take  it. 
That  never  saw  them  pace  before,  the  spavin, 
A  springhalt  reign'd  among  them.'^ 

Cham.  Death  !  my  lord, 

Their  clothes  are  after  such  a  pagan  cut  too. 
That,   sure,   they  have  worn    out   Christendom. 

How  now  ? 
What  news,  sir  Thomas  Lovell  ? 

Enter  Sir  Thomas  Lovell. 

Ijov.  'Faith,  my  .ord, 

I  hear  of  none,  but  the  new  proclamation 
That 's  clapp'd  upon  the  court-gate. 

Cham.  What  is  't  for  f 

Lav.  The  reformation  of  our  travell'd  gallants, 
That  fill  the  court  with  quarrels,  talk,  and  tailors, 

Cham.  I  am  glad,  't  is  there ;  now  I  would  pray 
our  monsieurs 
To  think  an  English  courtier  may  be  wise, 
And  never  see  the  Louvre. 

Lov.  They  must  either 

(For  so  run  the  conditions,)  leave  these  remnants 
Of  fool,  and  feather,"  that  they  got  in  France, 
With  all  their  honourable  points  of  ignorance, 
Pertaining  thereunto,  (as  fights,  and  fireworks;'* 
Abusing  better  men  than  they  can  be, 
Out  of  a  foreign  wisdom,)  renouncing  clean 
The  faith  they  have  in  tennis,  and  tall  stockings. 
Short  blister'd  breeches,'*  and  those  types  of  travel, 


ACT  I. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


8CENE    IV. 


And  understand  again  like  honest  men  ; 

Or  pack  to  tli(nr  old  playfellows :  there,  I  take  it, 

They  may  cum  privilegio,  wear  away 

The  lag  end  of  their  lewdness,  and  be  laugh'd  at. 

Sands.  'T  is  time  to  give  them  physic,  their 
diseases 
Are  grown  so  catching. 

Cham.  What  a  loss  our  ladies 

Will  liave  of  these  trim  vanities  I 

Lov.  Ay,  marry, 

There  will  be  woe  indeed,  lords;  the  sly  whoresons 
Have  got  a  speeding  trick  to  lay  down  ladies ; 
A  French  song,  and  a  fiddle,  has  no  fellow. 

Sands.  The  devil  fiddle  them !  I  am  glad,  they're 
going ; 
(For,  sure,  there  's  no  converting  of  them  ;)  now 
An  honest  country  lord,  as  I  am,  beaten 
A  long  time  out  of  play,  may  bring  his  plain-song, 
And  have  an  hour  of  hearing  ;  and,  by'r-lady, 
Held  current  music  too. 

Cham.  Well  said,  lord  Sands  ; 

Your  colt's  tooth  is  not  cast  yet. 

Sands.  No,  my  lord ; 

Nor  shall  not,  while  I  have  a  stump. 

Cham.  Sir  Thomas, 

Whither  were  you  a  going  ? 

Lov.  To  the  cardinal's  ; 

Your  lordship  is  a  guest  too. 

Cham.  O,  't  is  true  : 

This  night  he  makes  a  supper,  and  a  great  one, 
To  many  lords  and  ladies;  there  will  be 
The  beauty  of  this  kingdom,  I  '11  assure  you. 

Lav.  That  churchman   bears  a  bounteous  mind 
indeed, 
A  liand  as  fruitful  as  the  land  that  feeds  us ; 
His  dews  fall  every  where. 

Cltam.  No  doubt,  he  's  noble  ; 

He  had  a  black  mouth,  that  said  other  of  him. 

Sands.  He  may,  my  lord,  he  has  wherewithal ; 
in  him, 
Sparing  would  show  a  worse  sin  than  ill  doctrine : 
Men  of  his  way  should  be  most  liberal, 
They  are  set  here  for  examples. 

Vhatn  True,  {hfj  Ava  so  ; 

But  tew  now  giVc  bu  greri.   <tiCft      M.y  barge  stays ; 
Your   lordship    shall    along ;  —  Come,    good   sir 

Thomas, 
We  shall  be  late  else  :  which  I  would  not  be, 
For  I  was  spoke  to,  with  sir  Henry  Guildford, 
This  niofht  to  be  comptrollers. 

Sands.  I  am  your  lordship's. 

{Uzeunt. 


SCENE  TV.— The  Presence- Chamber  in   York- 
Place. 

Hautboys.  A  small  Table  under  a  State  for  the 
Cardinal,  a  longer  Table  for  tJie  Guests.  Enter 
at  one  Door  Anne  Bullen,  and  divers  Lords, 
Ladies,  and  Gentlewomen,  as  Guests ;  at  an- 
other Door,  enter  Sir  Henry  Guildford. 

Guild.    Ladies,  a   general   welcome   from    his 
grace 
Salutes  ye  all :  This  night  he  dedicates 
To  fair  content,  and  you  :  none  here,  he  hopes, 
In  all  this  noble  bevy,  has  brought  with  her 
One  care  abroad ;  he  would  have  all  as  merry 
As  first-good  company,  good  wine,  good  welcome 

Can  make  good  people. O,  my  lord,  you  are 

tardy ; 

Enter  Lord  Chamberlain,  Lord  Sands,  ana 
Sir  Thomas  Lovell. 

The  very  thought  of  this  fair  company 
Clapp'd  wings  to  me. 

Cham.       You  are  young,  sir  Harry  Guildford. 

Sands.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  had  the  cardinal 
But  half  my  lay-thoughts  in  him,  some  of  these 
Should  find  a  running  banquet  ere  they  rested, 
I  think,  would  better  please  them :  By  my  life, 
They  are  a  sweet  society  of  fair  ones. 

Love.  O,  that  your  lordship  were  but  now  con- 
fessor 
To  one  or  two  of  these  ! 

Sands.  I  would,  I  were  ; 

They  should  find  easy  penance. 

Lov.  'Faith,  how  easy  ? 

Sands.  As  easy  as  a  down-bed  would  afibrd  it. 

Cham.  Sweet  ladies,  will  it  please  you  sit  ?  Sir 
Harry, 
Place  you  that  side,  I  '11  take  the  charge  of  this : 
His  grace  is  ent'ring. — Nay,  you  must  not  freeze ; 
Two  women  plac'd  together  makes  cold  weather  :— 
My  lord  Sands,  you  are  one  will  keep  them  waking; 
Pray,  sit  between  these  ladies. 

Sands.  By  my  faith, 

And  thank  your  lordship. — By  your  leave,  sweet 
ladies : 
[^Seats  himself  between  Anne  Bullen  and 
another  Lady. 
If  I  chance  to  talk  a  little  wild,  forgive  me ; 
I  had  it  from  my  father. 

Anne.  Was  he  mad,  sir  ? 

Sands.  O,  very  mad,  exceeding  mad,  in  love  too: 


KING  HEXRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE.  IV. 


But  he  would  bite  none ;  just  as  I  do  now,  ' 
He  would  kiss  you  twenty  with  a  breath. 

[^Kisses  her. 

Cham.  Well  said,  my  lord. — 

So,  now  you  are  fairly  seated : — Gentlemen, 
The  penance  lies  on  you,  if  these  fair  ladies 
Pass  away  frowning. 

Sands.  For  my  little  cure, 

Let  me  alone. 

Hautboys.     Enter  Cardinal  Wolsey,  attended  ; 
and  takes  his  State. 

Wol.  You  are  welcome,  my  fair  guests ;  that 
noble  lady, 
Or  gentleman,  that  is  not  frooly  merry. 
Is  not  my  friend :  This,  to  confirm  my  welcome ; 
And  to  you  all  good  health.  [Drinks. 

Sands.  Your  grace  is  noble  : — 

Let  me  have  such  a  bowl  may  hold  my  thanks, 
And  save  me  so  much  talking. 

Wol.  My  lord  Sands, 

I  am  beholden  to  you  :  cheer  your  neighbours. — 
Ladies,  you  are  not  merry  ; — Gentlemen, 
"Whose  fault  is  this  ? 

Sands.  The  red  wine  first  must  rise 

In  their  fair  cheeks,  my  lord  ;  then  we  shall  have 

them 
Talk  us  to  silence. 

Anne.  You  are  a  merry  gamester. 

My  lord  Sands. 

Sands.  Yes,  if  I  make  my  play. 

Here 's  to  your  ladyship  :  and  pledge  it,  madam, 
For  't  is  to  such  a  thing, — 

Anne.  You  cannot  show  me. 

Sands.  I  told  your  grace,  they  would  talk  anon. 
[Brum  and  Trumpets  within :   Chambers 
discharged.^^ 

Wol.  What 's  that  ? 

Cfiam.  Look  out  there,  some  of  you. 

[Exit  a  Servant. 

Wol.  What  warlike  voice  ? 

And  to  what  end  is  this  ? — Nay,  ladies,  fear  not ; 
By  all  the  laws  of  war  you  are  privileg'd. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Cham.  How  now  ?  what  is  't  ? 
Serv.  A  noble  troop  of  strangers ; 

For  so  they  seem  :  they  have  left  their  barge,  and 

landed ; 
And  hither  make,  as  great  ambassadors 
Fiom  foreign  princes. 

Wol.  Good  lord  chamberlain, 

1064 


Go,  give  them  welcome,  you  can  speak  the  French 

tongue ; 
And,  pray,  receive  them  nobly,  and  conduct  them 
Into  our  presence,  where  this  heaven  of  beauty 
Shall   shine   at  full    upon   them : — Some   attend 

him. — 
[Exit  Cham.,  attended.   All  arise,  and  Tables 

removed. 
You  have  now  a  broken  banquet;  but  we  '11  meni 

it. 
A  good  digestion  to  you  all :  and,  onco  more, 
I  shower  a  welcome  on  you ; — Welcome  all. 

Hautboys.  Enter  the  King,  av.d  twelve  Others, 
as  Maskers,  habited  like  Shepherds,  with  sixteen 
Torch-bearers ;  ushered  by  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain. They  pass  directly  be/ore  the  Cardinal, 
and  gracefully  salute  him. 

A  noble  company  !  what  are  their  pleasures  ? 
Cham.  Because  they  speak  no  English,  thu 
they  pray'd 
To  tell  your  grace ; — That,  having  heard  by  fame 
Of  this  so  noble  and  so  fair  assembly 
This  night  to  meet  here,  they  could  do  no  less. 
Out  of  the  great  respect  they  bear  to  beauty. 
But  leave  their  flocks ;  and,  under  your  fair  conduct, 
Crave  leave  to  view  these  ladies,  and  entreat 
An  hour  of  revels  with  them. 

Wol.  Say,  lord  chamberlain, 

They  have  done  my  poor  house  grace ;  for  which 

I  pay  them 
A  thousand   thanks,  and  pray  them  take  theii 
pleasures. 
[Ladies  chosen/or  the  Dance.     The  Kino 
chooses  Anne  Bullen. 
iT.  Hen.  The  fairest  hand  I  ever  touch'd  I  O 
beauty. 
Till  now  I  never  knew  thee.  [Music.     Dance. 

Wol.  My  lord, 

Cham.  Your  grace? 

Wol.         Pray,  tell  them  thus  much  from  me  : 
There  should  be  one  amongst  them,  by  his  person, 
More  worthy  this  place  than  myself;  to  whom, 
If  I  but  knew  him,  with  my  love  and  duty 
I  would  surrender  it. 

Cham.  I  will,  my  lord. 

[Cham,  goes  to  the  Company,  and  returns. 
Wol.  What  say  they  ? 

Cham.  Such  a  one,  they  all  confessi, 

There  is,  indeed  ;  which  they  would  havo  yml 

grace 
Find  out,  and  he  will  take  it. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


Wol.  Let  me  see  then. — 

^Comesfi'om  his  State. 

By  all  your  good  leaves,  gentlemen  ; — Here  I  '11 

make 
My  royal  choice. 

II.  Hen.  You  have  found  bim,  cardinal  ;" 

[  Unmasking. 
You  hold  a  fair  assembly  ;  you  do  well,  lord  : 
You  are  a  churchman,  or,  I  '11  tell  you,  cardinal, 
I  should  judge  now  unhappily. 

Wol.  I  am  glad, 

Your  grace  is  grown  so  pleasant. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  chamberlain, 

Pr'ythee,  come  hither :  What  fair  lady  's  that? 
Cham.  An  't  please  your   grace,   sir  Thomas 
Bullen's  daughter. 
The  viscount  Rochford,  one  of  her  highness'  wo- 
men. 
K.  Hen.  By   heaven,  she  is  a  dainty  one. — 
Sweetheart, 


I  were  unmannerly,  to  take  you  out. 

And  not  to  kiss  you." — A  health,  gentlemen, 

Let  it  go  round. 

Wol.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  is  the  banquet  readj 
r  the  privy  chamber? 

Lov.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Wol.  Your  grace, 

I  fear,  with  dancing  is  a  little  heated.'^ 

K.  Hen.  I  fear,  too  much. 

Wol.  There  's  fresher  air,  my  lord, 

In  the  next  chamber. 

K.  Hen.  Lead  in  your  ladies,  every  one. — Sweet 
partner, 
I  must  not  yet  forsake  you : — Let 's  be  merry  ;— 
Good  my   lord    cardinal,   I   have    half  a  dozen 

healths 
To  drink  to  these  fair  ladies,  and  a  measure 
To  lead  them  once  again  ;  and  then  let's  dream 
Who  's  best  in  favour. — Let  the  music  knock  it. 
\Exeunty  with  Trumpets. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Street. 
Enter  Two  Gentlemen,  meeting. 

\st  Gent.  Whither  away  so  fast  ? 

^nd  Gent.  O, — God  save  you  ! 

Even  to  the  hall,  to  hear  what  shall  become 
Of  the  great  duke  of  Buckingham. 

\st  Gent.  I  '11  save  you 

That  labour,  sir.     All  's  now  done,  but  the  cere- 
mony 
Of  bringing  back  the  prisoner. 

2,nd  Gent.  Were  you  there  ? 

\st  Gent.  Yes,  indeed,  was  I. 

2no?  Gent.       Pray,  speak,  what  has  happen'd  ? 

\st  Gent.  You  may  guess  quickly  what. 

2nd  Gent.  Is  he  found  guilty  ? 

ist  Gent.  Yes,  truly  is  he,  and  condemn'd  upon 
it. 

2nd  Gent.  I  am  sorry  for 't. 

\st  Gent.  So  are  a  number  more. 

2nd  Gent.  But,  pray,  how  pass'd  it? 

\st  Gent.  I'll  tell  you  in  a  little.     The  great 
duke 
Came  to  the  bar ;  where,  to  his  accusations, 
He  pleaded  still,  not  guilty,  and  alleg'd 


Many  sharp  reasons  to  defeat  tlie  law. 
The  king's  attorney,  on  the  contrary, 
Urg'd  on  the  exainiiiations,  proofs,  confessions 
Of  divers  witnesses  ;  which  the  duke  desir'd 
To  him  brought,  vivci  voce,  to  his  face: 
"At  which  appear'd  against  him,  his  surveyor  ; 
Sir  Gilbert  Peck  his  chancellor;  and  John  Court, 
Confessor  to  him  ;  with  that  devil-monk, 
Hopkins,  that  made  this  mischief. 

2nd  Gent.  That  was  he, 

That  fed  him  with  his  prophecies? 

Is^  Gent.  The  same. 

All  these  accus'd  him  strongly  ;  which  he  fain 
Would  have  flung  from  him,  but,  indeed,  he  could 

not: 
And  so  his  peers,  upon  this  evidence, 
Have  found  him  guilty  of  high  treasoi..     Much 
He  spoke,  and  learnedly,  for  life;  but  all 
Was  either  pitied  in  him,  or  forgotten. 

2nd  Gent.  After  all  this,  how  did  he  bear  him- 
self? 

\st  Gent.  When  he  was  brought  again  to  the 
bar, — to  hear 
His  knell  rung  out,  his  judgment, — he  was  stirr'd 
With  such  an  agony,  he  sweat  extremely, 

1066 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCBNE    1. 


And  something  spoke  in  clioler,  ill,  and  hasty  : 
But  he  fell  to  hiraself  again,  and,  sweetly, 
In  all  the  rest  show'd  a  most  noble  patience. 

2/tc/  Gent.  I  do  not  think,  he  fears  death. 

\st  Gent.  Sure,  he  does  not, 

iie  never  was  so  womanish  ;  the  cause 
He  may  a  little  grieve  at. 

Ind  Gent.  Certainly, 

The  cardinal  is  the  end  of  this. 

\st  Gent.  'T  is  likely, 

By  all  conjectures  :  First,  Kildare's  attainder, 
Then  deputy  of  Ireland  ;  who  remov'd. 
Earl  Surrey  was  sent  thither,  and  in  haste  too. 
Lest  he  should  help  his  father. 

Ind  Gent.  That  trick  of  state 

Was  a  deep  envious  one. 

\st  Gent.  At  his  return, 

No  doubt,  he  will  requite  it.     This  is  noted, 
And  generally  ;  whoever  the  king  favours, 
The  cardinal  instantly  will  find  employment, 
And  far  enough  from  court  too. 

2nd  Gent.  All  the  commons 

Hate  him  perniciously,  and,  o'  my  conscience. 
Wish  him  ten  fathom  deep:  this  duke  as  much 
Tliey    love   and    dote   on  ;    call  him,   bounteous 

Buckingham, 
The  mirror  of  all  courtesy  ; — 

lat  Gent.  Stay  there,  sir, 

And  see  the  noble  ruin'd  man  you  speak  of. 

Enter  Buckingham //wji  his  Arraignment ;  Tip- 
staves before  him ;  the  Axe  with  the  Edge  to- 
wards him  ;  Halberds  on  each  side  ;  with  him, 
Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  Sir  Nicholas  Vaux,  Sir 
William  Sands,  and  common  People. 

2nd  Gent.  Let's  stand  close,  and  behold  him. 

Buck.  All  good  people. 

You  that  thus  far  have  come  to  pity  me. 
Hear  what  I  say,  and  then  go  home  and  lose  me. 
I  have  this  day  receiv'd  a  traitor's  judgment. 
And  by  that  name  must  die :  Yet,  heaven  bear 

witness, 
And,  if  r  have  a  conscience,  let  it  sink  me, 
Even  as  the  axe  falls,  if  I  be  not  faithful ! 
The  law  I  bear  no  malice  for  my  death. 
It  has  done,  upon  the  premises,  but  justice  : 
But  those,  that  sought  it,  I  could  wish  more  chiis- 

tians :  ^ 

Be  what  they  will,  I  heartily  forgive  them  : 
Yet  let  them  look  they  glory  not  in  mischief, 
Nor  build  their  evils  on  the  graves  of  great  men  ; 
For  then  my  guiltless  blood  must  cry  against  them. 
1066 


For  further  life  in  this  world  I  ne'er  hope, 
Nor  will  I  sue,  although  the  king  have  mercies 
More  than   I  dare  make  faults.     You  few  that 

lovVi  me. 
And  dare  be  bold  to  weep  for  Buckingham, 
His  noble  friends,  and  fellows,  whom  to  leave 
Is  only  bitter  to  him,  only  dying, 
Go  with  me,  like  good  angels,  to  my  end  ; 
And,  as  the  long  divorce  of  steel  falls  on  me. 
Make  of  your  prayers  one  sweet  sacrifice. 
And  lift  my  soul  to  heaven. — Lead  on,  o'  Gotl's 
name, 

Lov,  I  do  beseech  your  grace  for  charity, 
If  ever  any  malice  in  your  heart 
Were  hid  against  me,  now  to  forgive  me  frankly. 

Buck.  Sir  Thomas  Lovell,  I  as  free  forgive  you, 
As  I  would  be  forgiven  :  I  forgive  all ; 
There  cannot  be  those  numberless  ofi'ences 
'Gainst  me,  I  can't  take  peace  with  :  no  black  envy 
Shall  make  my  grave. — Commend  me  to  his  grace; 
And,  if  he  speak  of  Buckingham,  pray,  tell  him, 
You  met  him  half  in  heaven  :  my  vows  and  prayers 
Yet  are  the  king's;  and,  till  my  soul  forsake  me, 
Shall  cry  for  blessings  on  him :  May  he  live 
Longer  than  I  have  time  to  tell  his  years  ! 
Ever  belov'd,  and  loving,  may  his  rule  be ! 
And,  when  old  time  shall  lead  him  to  his  end. 
Goodness  and  he  fill  up  one  monument  1 

Lov.  To  the  water  side  I  must  conduct  your 
grace ; 
Then  give  ray  charge  up  to  sir  Nicholas  Vaux, 
Who  undertakes  you  to  your  end. 

Vaux.  Prepare  there, 

The  duke  is  coming:  see,  llie  barge  be  ready  ; 
And  fit  it  with  such  furniture,  as  suits 
The  greatness  of  his  person. 

Buck.  Nay,  sir  Nicholas, 

Let  it  alone ;  my  state  now  will  but  mock  me. 
When  I  came  hither,  I  was  lord  high  constable. 
And  duke  of  Buckingham  ;  now,  poor  Edward 

Bohun  :=" 
Yet  I  am  richer  than  my  base  accusers. 
That  never  knew  what  truth  meant :  I  now  seal  it; 
And  with  that  blood  will  make  them  one  day 

groan  for  't. 
My  noble  father,  Henry  of  Buckingham, 
Who  first  rais'd  head  against  usurping  Richard, 
Flying  for  succour  to  his  servant  Banister, 
Being  distress'd,  was  by  that  wretch  betray'd, 
And  without  trial  fell ;  God's  peace  be  with  him 
Henry  the  Seventh  succeeding,  truly  pitying 
My  father's  loss,  like  a  most  royal  prince. 


AC!    II. 


KING  HENliY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE    II. 


RestorM  me  to  my  honours,  and,  out  of  ruins. 
Made  my  name  once  more  noble.     Now  his  son, 
Henry  the  Eighth,  hfe,  honour,  name,  and  all 
That  made  me  happy,  at  one  stroke  has  taken 
For  ever  from  the  world.     I  had  my  trial, 
And,  must  needs  say,  a  noble  one  :  which  makes 

me 
A  little  happier  than  my  wretched  father: 
Yet  thus  far  we  are  one  in  fortunes, — Both 
Fell  by  our  servants,  by  those  men  we  lov'd  most ; 
A  most  unnatural  and  faithless  service ! 
Heaven  has  an  end  in  all :  Yet,  you  that  hear  me. 
This  from  a  dying  man  receive  as  certain  : 
Where  you  are  liberal  of  your  loves,  and  counsels. 
Be  sure,  you  be  not  loose ;  for  those  you  make 

friends. 
And  give  your  hearts  to,  when  they  once  perceive 
The  least  rub  in  your  fortunes,  fall  away 
Like  water  from  ye,  never  found  again 
But  where  they  mean  to  sink  ye.   All  good  people, 
Pray  for  me  !  I  must  now  forsake  ye ;  the  last 

hour 
Of  my  long  weary  life  is  come  upon  me. 
Farewell : 

And  when  you  would  say  something  that  is  sad, 
Speak  how  I  fell. — I  have  done;  and  God  forgive 
me  !  [Exeunt  Buck,  and  Train. 

1st  Gent.  0,  this  is  full  of  pity  ! — Sir,  it  calls, 
I  fear,  too  many  curses  on  their  heads. 
That  were  the  authors. 

2nd  Gent.  If  the  duke  be  guiltless, 

'T  is  full  of  woe  :  yet  I  can  give  you  inkling 
Of  a?  ensuing  evil,  if  it  fall. 
Greater  than  this. 

\st  Gent.  Good  angels  keep  it  from  us! 

Where  may  it  be  ?   You  do  not  doubt  my  faith, 
sir  ? 

2nd  Gent.  This  secret  is  so  weighty,  't  will  re- 
quire 
A  strong  faith  to  conceal  it. 

1st  Gent.  Let  me  have  it; 

I  do  not  talk  much. 

2nd  Gent.  I  am  confident ; 

You  shall,  sir :  Did  you  not  of  late  days  hear 
A  buzzing,  of  a  separation 
Between  the  king  and  Katharine  ? 

l.st  Gent.  Yes,  but  it  held  not : 

For  when  the  king  once  heard  it,  out  of  anger 
He  sent  command  to  the  lord  mayor,  straight 
To  stop  the  rumour,  and  allay  those  tongues 
That  durst  disperse  it. 

2nd  Gent  But  that  slander,  sir, 


Is  found  a  truth  now  :  for  it  grows  again 
Fresher  than  e'er  it  was ;  and  held  for  certain. 
The  king  will  venture  at  it.     Either  the  cardinal, 
Or  some  about  him  near,  have,  out  of  malice 
To  the  good  queen,  possessed  him  with  a  scruple 
That  will  undo  her :  To  confirm  this  too, 
Cardinal  Campeius  is  arriv'd,  and  lately  ; 
As  all  think,  for  this  business. 

1st  Gent.  'T  is  the  cardinal ; 

And  merely  to  revenge  him  on  the  emperor, 
For  not  bestowing  on  him,  at  his  asking, 
The  archbishopric  of  Toledo,  this  is  purpos'd. 

2nd  Gent.  I  think,  you  have  hit  the  mark  :  Bit 
is  't  not  cruel. 
That  she  should  feel  the  smart  of  this  ?  Tlie  car- 
dinal 
Will  have  his  will,  and  she  must  fall. 

1st  Gent.  "I  is  woful. 

We  are  too  open  here  to  argue  this : 
Let  's  think  in  private  more.  [JSxeunt, 

SCENE  II. — An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chambkrlain,  reading)  a  Letter. 

Cham.  My  lord, — The  horse?  yonr  lordsliip  sent  for, 
witli  all  the  care  I  had,  I  saw  well  chosen,  ridden,  and  fiir- 
nislied.  They  were  youiicr,  and  handsome;  and  of  the  best 
breed  in  the  north.  Wlien  they  were  ready  to  set  out  foi 
London,  a  man  of  my  lord  cardinal's,  by  commissionn,  ad 
main  power,  took  'em  from  me;  with  this  reason,— His 
master  would  he  served  before  a  subject,  if  not  before 
tlie  king;   whicli  stopped  our  mouths,  sir. 

I  fear,  he  will,  indeed  :  Well,  let  him  have  them : 
He  will  have  all,  I  think. 

Enter  the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk. 

Nor.  Well  met,  my  good 

Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good  day  to  both  your  graces. 

Suf.  How  is  the  king  employ'd  ? 

Cham.  I  left  bira  private, 

Full  of  sad  thoughts  and  troubles. 

Nor.  What 's  the  cause  ? 

Cham.  It  seems,  the  marriage  with  his  brother's 
wife 
Has  crept  too  near  his  conscience. 

Suf.  No,  his  conscience 

Has  crept  too  near  another  lady. 

Nor.  'T  is  so ; 

This  is  the  cardinal's  doing,  the  king-cardinal : 
That  blind  priest,  like  the  eldest  son  of  fortune, 
Turns  what  he  lists.    The  king  will  know  hi  in  one 
day. 

1067 


AOT  U. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


scETNii:  n. 


Suf.  Pray  God,  he  do  !  he  '11  never  know  him- 
self else. 

iVor.  How  holily  he  works  in  all  his  business  ! 
A.nd  with  what  zeal !  For,  now  he  has  crack'd  the 

leagae 
Between  us  and  the  emperor,  the  queen's  great 

nephew, 
He  dives  into  the  king's  soul ;  and  there  scatters 
Dangers,  doubcs,  wringing  of  the  conscience, 
Fears,  and  despairs,  and  all  these  for  his  marriage  : 
And,  out  of  all  these  to  restore  the  king, 
He  counsels  a  divorce:  a  loss  of  her, 
That,  like  a  jewel,  has  hung  twenty  years 
About  his  neck,  yet  never  lost  her  lustre ; 
Of  her,  fliat  loves  him  with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  good  men  with ;  even  of  her 
That,  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  falls, 
Will  bless  the  king :  And  is  not  this  course  pious  ? 

Cham.   Heaven  keep  me  from  such  counsel ! 
'T  is  most  true, 
Ihese  news  are  every  where  ;  every  tongue  speaks 

them. 
And  every  true  heart  weeps  for 't :  All,  that  dare 
Look  into  these  affairs,  see  this  main  end, — 
The  French  king's  sister.    Heaven  will  one  day  open 
The  king's  eyes,  that  so  long  have  slept  upon 
This  bold  bad  man. 

Suf.  And  free  us  from  his  slavery. 

Nor.  We  had  need  pray, 
And  heartily,  for  our  deliverance; 
Or  this  imperious  man  will  work  us  all 
From  princes  into  pages  ;^'  all  men's  honours 
Lie  in  one  lump  before  him,  to  be  fashion'd 
Into  what  pitch  he  please. 

Suf.  For  me,  my  lords, 

I  love  him  not,  nor  fear  him  ;  there  's  my  creed : 
As  I  am  made  without  him,  so  I  '11  stand. 
If  the  king  please;  his  curses  and  his  blessings 
Touch  me  alike,  they  are  breath  1  not  believe  in. 
I  knew  him,  and  I  know  him  ;  so  I  leave  him 
To  him,  that  made  him  proud,  the  Pope. 

Nor.  Let 's  iu  ; 

And,  with  some  other  business,  put  the  king 
From   these  sad  thoughts,  that  work  too  much 

upon  him  : — 
My  lord,  you  '11  bear  us  company  ? 

Cham.  Excuse  me  ; 

The  king  hath  sent  me  other-where:  besides, 
You  Ml  find  a  most  unfit  time  to  disturb  him  : 
Ueailh  to  your  lordships. 

Nor,  Thanks,  my  good  lord  chamberlain. 

[Exit  Cham. 
1068 


NoKFOLK  Opens  a  folding-door.    The  Kino  is  dis- 
covered sitting,  and  reading  pensively. 

Suf  How  sad  he  looks  I  sure,  he  is  much  at 
fiicted. 

K.  Hen.  Who  is  there  ?  ha  ? 

Nor.  'Pray  God,  he  be  not  angry. . 

K.  Hen.  Who  's  there,  I  say  ?     How  dare  you 
thrust  yourselves 
Into  my  private  meditations  ? 
Who  am  I  ?  ha  ? 

Nor.  A  gracious  king,  that  pardons  all  oflfences 
Malice  ne'er  meant :  our  breach  of  duty,  this  way, 
Is  business  of  estate;  in  which,  we  come 
To  know  your  royal  pleasure. 

JC.  Hen.  You  are  too  bold  ; 

Go  to  ;  I  '11  make  ye  know  your  times  of  business: 
Is  this  an  hour  for  temporal  affairs  ?  ha  ? 

Enter  Wolsey  and  Campeius. 

Who  's  there  ?  my  good  lord  cardinal  ? — 0  my 

Wolsey, 
The  quiet  of  my  wounded  conscience. 
Thou  art  a  cure  fit  for  a  king. — You  're  welcome, 

[To  Gam. 
Most  learned  reverend  sir,  into  our  kingdom  ; 
Use  us,  and  it : — My  good  lord,  have  great  care 
I  be  not  found  a  talker.^''  [To  Wol. 

Wol.  Sir,  you  cannot. 

I  would,  your  grace  would  give  us  but  an  hour 
Of  private  conference. 

K.  Hen.  We  are  busy  ;  go. 

[To  Nob.  and  Suf. 

Nor.  This  priest  has  no  pride  in  him  ? 

Suf.  Not  to  speak  of; 

I  would  not  be  so  sick  though,  for  his  place : 
But  this  cannot  continue. 

Nor.  If  it  do, 

I  '11  venture  one  heave  at  him. 

Sitf  I  another. 

[Exeunt  Nor.  and  Suf. 

Wol.   Your  grace  has   given  a  precedent  of 
wisdom 
Above  all  princes,  in  committing  freely 
Your  scruple  to  the  voice  of  Christendom  : 
Who  can  be  angry  now  ?  what  envy  reach  you  I 
The  Spaniard,  tied  by  blood  and  favour  to  her, 
Must  now  confess,  if  they  have  any  goodness, 
The  trial  just  and  noble.     All  the  clerks, 
I  mean,  the  learned  ones,  in  christian  kingdoms. 
Have  their  free  voices ;  Rome,  the  nurse  of  judg- 
ment. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH 


scEriB  ni. 


Invited  by  youi  tioble  self,  hath  sent 
One  general  tongue  unto  us,  this  good  man. 
This  just  and  learned  priest,  cardinal  Campeius  ; 
Whom,  once  more,  I  present  unto  your  highness. 
K.  Hen.  And,  once  more,  in  mine  arms  I  bid 
him  welcome. 
And  thank  the  holy  conclave  for  their  loves  ; 
They  have  sent   me   such   a  man  I  would  have 
wish'd  for. 
Cam.  Your  grace  must  needs  deserve  all  stran- 
gers' loves, 
You  are  so  noble :  To  your  highness'  hand 
I  tender  my  commission  ;  by  whose  virtue, 
(The  court  of  Rome  commanding,) — you,  my  lord 
Cardinal  of  York,_are  joinV  with  me  their  servant. 
In  the  unpartial  judging  of  this  business. 

K.  Hen.  Two  equal  men.     The  queen  shall  be 
acquainted 
Fortliwith,  for  what  you  come  : — Where  's  Gar- 
diner ? 
Wol.  I  know,  youi   majesty  has  always  lov'd 
her 
So  dear  in  heart,  not  to  deny  her  that  . 
A  woman  of  less  place  might  ask  by  law. 
Scholars,  allow'd  freely  to  argue  for  her. 

K.  Hen.  Ay,  and  the  best,  she  shall  have ;  and 

my  favour 

To  him  that  does  best ;  God  forbid  else.  Cardinal, 

Pr'ythee,  call  Gardiner  to  me,  my  new  secretary  ; 

I  find  him  a  fit  fellow.  [Exit  Wol. 

Re-enter  Wolsey,  with  Gardiner. 

Wol.  Give  me  your  hand :  much  joy  and  fa- 
vour to  you  ; 
You  are  the  king's  now, 

Oard.  But  to  be  commanded 

For  ever  by  your  grace,  whose  hand  has  rais'd 
me.  [Aside. 

K.  Hen.  Come  hither,  Gardiner. 

[They  converse  apart. 
Cam.  My  lord  of  York,  was  not  one  doctor  Pace 
In  this  man's  place  before  him  ? 

Wol.  Yes,  he  was. 

Cam.  Was  he  not  held  a  learned  man  ? 
Wol.  Yes,  surely. 

Cam.  Believe  me,  there  's  an  ill  opinion  spread 
then 
Even  of  yourself,  lord  cardinal. 

Wol.  How!  of  me? 

Cam.    They  will  not  stick  to  say,  you  envied 
him ; 
And,  fearing  he  would  rise,  he  was  so  virtuous. 


Kept  him   a  foreign  man  still ;  which  so  griev'd 

him, 
That  he  ran  mad,  and  died. 

Wol.  Heaven's  peace  be  with  xiim  ! 

That  's  christian  care  enough  :  for  living  mur- 

murers, 
There  's  places  of  rebuke.     He  was  a  fool ; 
For   he  would    needs    be  virtuous :    That    good 

fellow, 
If  I  command  him,  follows  my  appointment ; 
I  will  have  none  so  near  else.     Learn  this,  brother, 
We  live  not  to  be  grip'd  by  meaner  persons. 
K.  Hen.    Deliver   this  with   modesty  to   the 
queen.  [Exit  Gard. 

The  most  convenient  place  that  I  can  think  of, 
For  such  receipt  of  learning,  is  Black-Friars ; 
There  ye  shall  meet  about  this  weighty  business : — 
My  Wolsey,  see  it  furnish'd. — O  my  lord, 
Would  it  not  grieve  an  able  man,  to  leave 
So    sweet   a    bedfellow  ?      But    conscience,   con- 
science,— 
0,  't  is  a  tender  place,  and  I  must  leave  her. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Queen's 
Apartments. 

Enter  Anne  Bullen,  and  an  old  Lady. 

Anne.  Not  for  that  neither ; — Here  's  the  pang 
that  pinches  : 
His  highness  having  liv'd  so  long  with  her :  and 

she 
So  good  a  lady,  that  no  tongue  could  ever 
Pronounce  dishonour  of  her, — by  my  life, 
She  never  knew  harm-doing ; — O  now,  after 
So  many  courses  of  the  sun  enthron'd. 
Still  growing  in  a  majesty  and  pomp, — the  which 
To  leave  is  a  thousand-fold  more  bitter,  than 
'T  is  sweet  at  first  to  acquire, — after  this  process, 
To  give  her  the  avaunt!  it  is  a  pity 
Would  move  a  monster. 

Old  L.  Hearts  of  mos^  hard  temper 

Melt  and  lament  for  her. 

Anne.  0,  Gcvl's  will !  much  better, 

She  ne'er  had  known  pomp :  though  it  be  tem- 
poral. 
Yet,  if  that  cruel  fortune  do  divorce 
It  from  the  bearer,  't  is  a  sufi'erance,  panging 
As  soul  and  body's  severmg. 

Old  L.  Alas,  poor  lad    : 

She  's  a  stranger  now  again. 

Anne.  Sr  much  the  more 

1069 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE   in 


Must  pity  drop  upon  hor.     Verily, 
I  swear,  't  is  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content. 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

Old  L.  Our  content 

[s  our  best  having. 

Anne.  By  my  troth,  and  maidenhead, 

I  would  not  be  a  queen. 

Old  L.  Beshrew  me,  I  wjould, 

And  venture  maidenhead  for 't;  and  so  would  you. 
For  all  this  spice  of  your  hypocrisy  : 
You,  that  have  so  fair  parts  of  woman  on  you, 
Have  too  a  woman's  heart ;  which  ever  yet 
Afiected  eminence,  wealth,  sovereignty  ; 
Which,  to  say  sooth,  are  blessings  :  and  which 

gifts 
^Saving  your  mincing)  the  capacity 
3f  your  soft  cheveril  conscience^^  would  receive, 
if  you  might  please  to  stretch  it. 

Anne.  Nay,  good  troth, 

Old  L.  Yes,  troth,  and  troth, — You  would  not 
be  a  queen  ? 

Anne.  No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven. 

Old  L.  'T  is   strange  ;    a   three-pence   bowed 
would  hire  me, 
Uld  as  I  am,  to  queen  it :  But,  I  pray  you. 
What  think  you  of  a  duchess  ?  have  you  limbs 
To  bear  that  load  of  title  ? 

Anne.  No,  in  truth. 

Old  L,  Then  you  are  weakly  made :  Pluck  off 
a  little  ; 
I  would  not  be  a  young  count  in  your  way. 
For  more  than  blushing  comes  to  :  if  your  back 
Cannot  vouchsafe  this  burden,  't  is  too  weak 
Ever  to  get  a  boy. 

Anne.  How  you  do  talk  1 

I  swear  again,  I  would  not  be  a  queen 
For  all  the  world. 

Old  L.  In  faith,  for  little  England 

You  'd  venture  an  emballing :"  I  myself 
Would  for  Carnarvonshire,  although  there  'long'd 
No  more  to  the  crown  but  that     Lo,  who  comes 
here  ? 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Good  morrow,  ladies.  What  wer't  worth 
tio  know 
The  secret  of  your  conference  ? 

Annr.  My  good  lord, 

Not  your  demand ;  it  values  not  your  asking : 
Our  unstress'  sorrows  we  were  pitying. 
1070 


Cham.  It  was  a  gentle  business,  and  becoming 
The  action  of  good  women  :  there  is  hope. 
All  will  be  well. 

Anne.  Now  I  pray  God,  amen  ! 

Cham.  Y'ou  bear  a  gentje  mind,  and  heavcnlj 
blessings 
Follow  such  creatures.     That  you  may,  fair  lady 
Perceive  I  speak  sincerely,  and  high  note  's 
Ta'en  of  your  many  virtues,  the  king's  majesty 
Commends  his  good  opinion  to  you,  and 
Does  purpose  honour  to  you  no  less  flowing 
Than  marchioness  of  Pembroke ;  to  which  title 
A  thousand  pounds  a  year,  annual  support, 
Out  of  his  grace  he  adds. 

Anne.  I  do  not  know, 

What  kind  of  my  obedience  I  should  tender ; 
More  than  my  all  is  nothing :  nor  my  prayers 
Are  not  words  duly  hallow'd,  nor  my  wishes 
More   worth   than   empty  vanities ;    yet  prayers, 

and  wishes, 
Are  all  I  can  return.     'Beseech  your  lordship, 
Vouchsafe  to  speak  my  thanks,  and  my  obedience 
As  from  a  blushing  handmaid,  to  his  highness ; 
Whose  health,  and  royalty,  I  pray  for. 

Cham.  Lady, 

I  shall  not  fail  to  approve  the  fair  conceit. 
The  king  hath  of  you. — I  have  perus'd  her  well ; 

[Aside. 
Beauty  and  honour  in  her  are  so  mingled, 
That  they  have  caught  the  king :  and  who  knows 

yet, 

But  from  this  lady  may  proceed  a  gem. 
To  lighten  all  this  isle  ? — I  '11  to  the  king. 
And  say,  I  spoke  with  you. 

Anne.  My  honour'd  lord. 

[Exit  Cham. 

Old  L.  Why,  this  it  is ;  see,  see  ! 
I  have  been  begging  sixteen  years  in  court, 
(Am  yet  a  courtier  beggarly,)  nor  could 
Come  pat  betwixt  too  early  and  too  late, 
For  any  suit  of  pounds  :  and  you,  (O  fate  !) 
A  very  fresh-fish  here,  (fie,  fie  upon 
This  compell'd  fortune!)  have  your  mouth  fiU'd  up, 
Before  you  open  it, 

Anne.  This  is  strange  to  me. 

Old   L.    How  tastes   it?    is   it   bitter?   forty 
pence,  no." 
There  was  a  lady  once,  ('t  is  an  old  story,) 
That  would  not  be  a  queen,  that  would  she  not. 
For  all  the  mud  in  Egypt : — Have  you  heard  it  % 

Anne.  Come,  you  are  pleasant. 

Old  L.  With  your  theme,  I  could 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE    IV. 


OV-nnount  the  lark.     The  marchioness  of  Pem- 
broke ! 
A  thousand  pounds  a  year  !  for  pure  respect; 
^u  other  obligation  :  By  my  life, 
That  promises  more  thousands  :  Honour's  train 
Is  longer  than  his  foreskirt.     By  this  time, 
I  know,  your  back  will  bear  a  duchess : — Say, 
Ai'e  you  not  stronger  than  you  were  ? 

Anne.  Good  lady. 

Make  youi-self  mirth  with  your  particular  fancy, 
And  leave  me  out  on  't.     'Would  I  had  no  being, 
If  this  elate  my  blood  a  jot ;  it  faints  me. 
To  think  what  follows. 
The  queen  is  comfortless,  and  we  forgetful 
In  our  long  absence :  Pray,  do  not  deliver 
What  here  you  have  heard,  to  her. 

Old  L.  What  do  you  think  me  ? 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— ^  Hall  in  Blackfriars. 

Trumpets,  Sennet,  and  Cornets.  Enter  two 
Vergers,  with  short  Silver  Wands ;  next  them, 
two  Scribes,  in  the  Habits  of  Doctors;  after 
them,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  alone; 
after  him,,  the  Bishops  of  Lincoln,  Ely,  Ro- 
chester, and  Saint  Asaph  ;  next  them,  with 
some  small  distance,  follows  a  Gentleman  bear- 
ing  the  Purse,  with  the  Great  Seal,  and  a  Car- 
dinal's Hat ;  then  two  Priests,  bearing  each  a 
Silver  Cross;  then  a  Gentleman-Usher  bare- 
headed, accompanied  with  a  Seijeant-at-Arms, 
bearing  a  Silver  Mace ;  then  two  Gentlemen, 
bearing  two  great  Silver  Pillars  ;^^  after  them, 
side  by  side,  the  two  Cardinals  Wolsey  and 
Campeius  ;  two  Noblemen,  with  the  Sword 
and  Mace.  Then  enter  the  King  and  Queen, 
and  their  Train§.  The  King  takes  place  under 
the  cloth  of  state ;  the  two  Cardinals  sit  under 
him  as  judges.  The  Queen  takes  place  at  some 
distance  from  the  King.  The  Bishops  place 
themselves  on  each  side  the  court,  in  manner  oj 
a  consistory ;  between  them,  the  Scribes.  The 
Lords  sit  next  the  Bishops.  The  Crier  and  the 
rest  of  the  Attendants  stand  in  convenient  order 
about  the  stage. 

Wol.  Whilst  our  commission  from  Rome  is  re.td, 
Let  silence  be  commanded. 

K.  Hen.  What 's  the  need  ? 

It  hath  already  publicly  been  read. 
And  on  all  sides  the  authority  allow'd  ; 
You  may  then  spare  that  time. 


Wol.  Be  't  so  : — Proceed 

Scribe.  Say,  Henry  king  of  England,  come  into 

the  court. 
Crier.  Henry  king  of  England,  &c. 
K.  Hen.  Here. 
Scribe.  Say,  Katharine  queen  of  England,  come 

into  court. 
Crier.  Katharine,  queen  of  England,  <fec. 

\_The  Queen  makes  no  answer,  rises  out  of 
her  chair,  goes  about  the  court^^  comes 
to  the  KivG,  and  kneels  at  his  feet ;  then 
speaks.] 

Q.  Kath.  Sir,  I  desire  you,  do  me  right  and 

justice ; 
And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me  :  for 
I  am  a  most  poor  woman,  and  a  stranger, 
Born  out  of  your  dominions;  having  here 
No  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 
Of  equal  friendship  and  proceeding.     Alas,  sir, 
In  what  have  I  offended  you  ?  what  cause 
Hath  my  behaviour  given  to  your  displeasure, 
That  thus  you  should  proceed  to  put  me  off. 
And  take  your  good  grace  from  mel     Heaver 

witness, 
I  have  been  to  you  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
At  all  times  to  your  will  conformable : 
Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  your  dislike, 
Yea,  subject  to  your  countenance ;  glad,  or  sorry 
As  I  saw  it  inclin'd.     When  was  the  hour, 
I  ever  contradicted  your  desire. 
Or  made  it  not  mine  too  ?     Or  which   of  your 

friends 
Have  I  not  strove  to  love,  although  I  knew 
He  were  mine  enemy  ?  what  friend  of  mine 
That  had  to  him  deriv'd  your  anger,  did  I 
Continue  in  my  liking  ?  nay,  gave  notice 
He  was  from  thence  discharg'd  ?  Sir,  call  to  mind 
That  I  have  been  your  wife,  in  this  obedience. 
Upward  of  twenty  years,  and  have  been  blest 
With  many  children  by  you :  If,  in  the  course 
And  process  of  this  time,  you  can  report. 
And  prove  it  too,  against  mine  honour  aught. 
My  bond  to  wedlock,  or  my  love  and  duty. 
Against  your  sacred  person,  in  God's  name, 
Turn  me  away ;  and  let  the  foul'st  contempt 
Shut  door  upon  me,  and  so  give  me  up 
To  the  sharpest  kind  of  justice.     Please  you,  sir. 
The  king,  your  father,  was  reputed  for 
A  prince  most  prudent,  of  an  excellent 
And  unraatch'd  wit  and  judgment :  Ferdiiuiuv,., 
My  father,  king  of  Spain,  was  reck  on'd  one 

\011 


ACT   II. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCKNE  ly. 


Tho   wisest   prince,  that   there   had    reign'd    by 

many 
A  year  before :  It  is  not  to  be  question'd 
That  they  had  gathered  a  wise  council  to  them 
Of  every  realm,  that  did  debute  this  business, 
Who  deera'd  our  marriage  lawful :  Wherefore  I 

humbly 
Beseech  you,  sir,  to  spare  me,  till  I  may 
Be  by  my  friends  in  Spain  advis'd ;  whose  counsel 
I  will  implore :  if  not,  i'  the  name  of  God, 
Your  pleasure  be  fulfill'd  ! 

Wul.  You  have  here,  lady, 

(And  of  your  choice,)  these  reverend  fathers  ;  men 
Of  singular  integrity  and  learning. 
Yea,  the  elect  of  the  land,  who  are  assembled 
To  plead  your  cause :  It  shall  be  therefore  bootless, 
That  longer  you  desire  the  court ;  as  well 
For  your  own  quiet,  as  to  rectify 
What  is  unsettled  in  the  king. 

Cam.  His  grace 

Elath  spoken  well,  and  justly  :  Therefore,  madam, 
It 's  fit  this  royal  session  do  proceed ; 
And  that,  without  delay,  their  arguments 
Hi   now  produc'd,  and  heard. 

Q.  Kath.  Lord  cardinal,^ 

1\)  you  I  speak. 

Wol.  Your  pleasure,  madam  ? 

Q.  Kath.  Sir, 

I  am  about  to  weep ;  but,  thinking  that 
We  are  a  queen,   (or  long  have   dream'd   so,) 

certain. 
The  daughter  of  a  king,  my  drops  of  tears 
I  'II  turn  to  sparks  of  fire. 

Wol.  Be  patient  yet. 

Q.  Kath.  I  will,  when  you  are  humble ;  nay, 
before. 
Or  God  will  punish  me.     I  do  believe, 
laduc'd  by  potent  circumstances,  that 
You  are  mine  enemy ;  and  make  my  challenge. 
You  shall  not  be  my  judge :  for  it  is  you 
Have  blown  this  coal  betwixt  my  lord  and  me, — 
Which  God's  dew  quench ! — Therefore,  I  say  again, 
I  utterly  abhor,  yea,  from  my  soul. 
Refuse  you  for  my  judge ;  whom,  yet  once  more, 
I  hold  my  most  malicious  foe,  and  think  not 
At  all  a  friend  to  truth, 

Wol.  I  do  profess. 

You  speak  not  like  yourself ;  who  ever  yet 
Have  stood  to  charity,  and  display'd  the  eflfects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O'ertopping  woman's  power.     Madam,  you  do  me 

•  wrong : 

1072 


I  have  no  spleen  against  you ;  nor  injustice 

For  you,  or  any  :  how  far  I  have  proceeded, 

Or  how  far  further  shall,  is  warranted 

By  a  commission  from  the  consistory. 

Yea,  the  whole  consistory  of  Rome.     You  charge 

me. 
That  I  have  blown  this  coal :  I  do  deny  it : 
The  king  is  present:  if  it  be  known  to  him, 
That  I  gainsay  my  deed,  how  may  he  wound, 
And  worthily,  my  falsehood  ?  yea,  as  much 
As  you  have  done  ray  truth.     But  if  he  know 
That  I  am  free  of  your  report,  he  knows, 
I  am  not  of  your  wrong.     Therefore  in  him 
It  lies,  to  cure  me :  and  the  cure  is,  to 
Remove  these  thoughts  from  you  :   The  whidi 

before 
Hi»  highness  shall  speak  in,  I  do  beseech 
You,  gracious  madam,  to  unthink  your  speaking, 
And  to  say  so  no  more. 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 
To  oppose  your  cunning.     You  are  meek,  and 

humble-mouth'd  ; 
You  sign  your  place  and  calling,  in  full  seeming, 
With  meekness  and  humility :  but  your  heart 
Is  cramm'd  with  arrogancy,  spleen,  and  pride. 
You  have,  by  fortune,  and  his  highness'  favours. 
Gone  slightly  o'er  low  steps;  and  now  are  mounted 
Where   powers   are    your   retainers :    and   your 

words. 
Domestics  to  you,  serve  your  will,  as  't  please 
Yourself  pronounce  their  office.     I  must  tell  you, 
You  tender  more  your  person's  honour,  than 
Your  high  profession  spiritual :  That  again 
I  do  refuse  you  for  my  judge  ;  and  here 
Before  you  all,  appeal  unto  the  pope. 
To  bring  my  whole  cause  'fore  his  holiness. 
And  to  be  judg'd  by  him.        • 

yShe  curtesies  to  <^Kino,  and  offers  to  depart. 

Cam.  The  queen  is  obstinate. 

Stubborn  to  justice,  apt  to  accuse  it,  and 
Disdainful  to  be  try'd  by  it ;  't  is  not  well. 
She  's  going  away. 

K.  Hen.  Call  her  again. 

Crier.  Katharine,  queen  of  England,  come  into 
the  court. 

Qrif.  Madam,  you  are  call'd  back. 

Q.  Kath.  What  need  you  note  it  ?  pray  you, 
keep  your  way : 
When  you  are  call'd,  return. — Now  the  Lord  lielp, 
They  vex  me  past  my  patience ! — pray  you,  pass 
on: 


'W^-  5fftTr5ri  ^]§  ^fpiffB  iSatl'dtkr, 


/  tr//l.  wken  -ynu   m-i-   liiiiiilih;  .A'ay.  fifff- 
111-   /rill/   It'll/    l^iiiiis/i     .'///  -  " 


'\^' 


KWG  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE    tVi 


I  will  Mot  tarry  :  no,  nor  ever  more, 
Upon  this  business,  my  appearance  make 
In  any  of  their  courts. 

[Exeunt  Queen,  Grif.,  and  her  other  Attendants. 

K.  Hen.  Go  thy  ways,  Kate: 

That  man  i'  the  world,  who  shall  report  he  has 
A  better  wife,  let  him  in  nought  be  trusted, 
For  speaking  false  in  that :  Thou  art,  alone, 
(If  thy  rare  qualities,  sweet  gentleness. 
Thy  meekness  saint-like,  wise-like  government, — 
Obeying  in  commanding, — and  thy  parts 
Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out,) 
The  queen  of  earthly  queens  : — She  is  noble  born  ; 
And,  like  her  true  nobility,  she  has 
Carried  herself  towards  me. 

Wol.  Most  gracious  sir. 

In  humblest  manner  I  require  your  highness, 
That  it  shall  please  you  to  declare,  in  hearing 
Of  all  these  ears,   (for  where  I  am  robb'd  and 

bound, 
There  must  I  be  unloos'd  ;  although  not  there 
At  once  and  fully  satisfied,)  whether  ever  I 
Did  broach  this  business  to  your  highness  ;  or 
Laid  any  scruple  in  your  way,  which  might 
Induce  you  to  the  question  on  't?  or  ever 
Have  to  you, — but  with  thanks  to  God  for  such 
A  royal  lady, — spake  one  the  least  word,  might 
I3e  to  the  prejudice  of  her  present  state, 
<3r  touch  her  of  good  person  2 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  cardinal, 

I  do  excuse  you  ;  yea,  upon  mine  honour, 
I  free  you  from  't.     You  are  not  to  be  taught 
That  you  have  many  enemies,  that  know  not 
Why  they  are  so,  but,  like  to  village  curs, 
Bark  when  their  fellows  do  :  by  some  of  these 
The  queen  is  put  in  angvr.     You  are  excus'd  : 
But  will  you  be  more  justified  ?  you  ever 
Have  wish'd  the  sleeping  of  this  business  ;  never 
Desir'd  it  to  be  stirr'd  ;  but  oft  have  hinder'd  ;  oft 
The  passages  made  toward  it  : — on  my  honour, 
1  speak  my  good  lord  cardinal  to  this  point, 
And  thus  far  clear  hira.     Now,  what  moved  me 

to  't, — 
I  will  be  bold  with  time,  and  your  attention : — 
Then  mark  the  inducemont.    Thus  it  came  ; — give 

heed  to  't : — 
My  conscience  first  re^eiv'd  a  tenderness, 
Scrapie,  and  prick,  on  certain  speeches  utter'd 
By  the  bishop  of  Bayonne,  then  French  ambassa- 
dor; 
Who  had  beeii  hither  sent  on  the  debating 
A  marriage,  'twixt  the  duke  of  Orleans  and 


Our  daughter  Mary  :  I'  the  progress  of  this  busi- 
ness. 
Ere  a  determinate  resolution,  he 
(I  mean,  the  bishop)  did  require  a  respite , 
Wherein  he  might  the  king  his  lord  advertise 
Whether  our  daughter  were  legitimate, 
Respecting  this  our  marriage  with  the  dowager. 
Sometime  our  brother's  wife.    This  respite  shook 
The  bosom  of  my  conscience,  enter'd  me, 
Yea,  with  a  splitting  power,  and  made  to  tremble 
The  region  of  my  breast ;  which  forc'd  such  way 
That  many  maz'd  cousiderings  did  throno-, 
And  press'd  in  with  this  caution.  First,  methought, 
I  stood  not  in  the  smile  of  heaven  ;  who  had 
Commanded  nature,  that  my  lady's  womb. 
If  not  conceiv'd  a  male  child  by  me,  should 
Do  no  more  offices  of  life  to  't,  than 
The  grave  does  to  the  dead  :  for  her  male  issue 
Or  died  where  they  were  made,  or  shortly  after 
This  world  had  air'd  them :  Hence  I  took  a  thought, 
This  was  a  judgment  on  me  ;  that  my  kingdom 
Well  worthy  the  best  heir  o'  the  world,  shoulc* 

not 
Be  gladded  in  't  by  me :  Then  follows,  that 
I  weigh'd  the  danger  which  my  realms  stood  jn 
By  this  my  isstie's  fail ;  and  that  gave  to  me 
Many  a  groaning  throe.     Thus  hulling  in 
The  wild  sea  of  my  conscience,  I  did  steer 
Toward  this  remedy,  whereupon  we  are 
Now  present  here  together ;  that 's  ^o  say, 
I  meant  to  rectify  my  conscience, — which 
I  then  did  feel  full  sick,  and  yet  not  well, — 
By  all  the  reverend  fathers  of  the  land, 
And  doctors  learn'd. — First,  I  began  in  private 
With  you,  my  lord  of  Lincoln  ;  you  remember 
How  under  my  oppression  I  did  reek. 
When  I  fii"st  mov'd  you. 

Lin.  Very  well,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  I  have  spoke  long ;  be  pleas'd  your- 
self to  say, 
How  far  vou  satisfied  me. 

Lin.  So  please  your  highnea^ 

The  question  did  at  first  so  stagger  me, — 
Bearing  a  state  of  mi^ity  moment  in  't, 
And  consequence  of  dread — that  I  committee 
The  daring'st  counsel  which  I  had,  to.  doubt ; 
And  did  entreat  your  highness  to  this  course, 
Which  you  are  running  here. 

K.  Hen.  I  then  mov'd  yon, 

My  lord  of  Canterbury ;  and  got  your  leave 
To  make  this  present  summons : — Unsolicited 
I  left  no  reverend  person  in  this  court ; 

1073 


ACT   III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


flCBITB 


But  by  particular  consent  proceeded, 
Under  your  hands  and  seals.     Therefore,  go  on : 
For  no  dislike  i'  the  world  against  the  person 
Of  the  good  queen,  but  the  sharp  thorny  points 
Of  my  alleged  reasons,  drive  this  forward  : 
Prove  but  our  marriage  lawful,  by  my  life, 
And  kingly  dignity,  we  are  contented 
To  wear  our  mortal  state  to  come,  with  her, 
Katharine   our  queen,  before  the  primest  crea- 
ture 
That 's  paragon'd  o'  the  world. 

Cam.  So  please  your  highness. 


The  queen  being  absent,  't  is  a  needful  fitneaa 
That  we  adjourn  this  court  till  further  day  : 
Meanwhile  must  be  an  earnest  motion 
Made  to  the  queen,  to  call  back  her  appeal 
She  intends  unto  his  holiness.  [They  rise  to  depart, 
K.  Hen.  I  may  perceive,  [Aside. 

These  cardinals  trifle  with  me  :  I  abhor 
This  dilatory  sloth,  and  tricks  of  Rome. 
My  learn'd  and  well-beloved  servant,  Cranmer, 
Pr'ythee  return  I^"  with  thy  approach,  I  know. 
My  comfort  comes  along.     Break  up  the  court, 
I  say,  set  on.   [Exeunt^  in  manner  as  they  entered. 


ACT   III, 


SCENE  L— Palace  at  Bridewell.  A  Boom  in  the 
Queen's  Apartment. 

The  Queen,  and  some  of  her  Women,  at  work. 

Q.  Kath.  Take  thy  lute,  wench  :  my  soul  grows 
sad  with  troubles ; 
Sing,  and  disperse   them,  if  thou   canst  :  leave 
working. 

SONG 

Orpheus  with  his  Kite  made  trees, 
And  the  mountain-tops,  that  freeze, 

Bow  themselves,  when  he  did  sing : 
To  his  music,  plants,  and  flowers, 
Ever  sprung ;  as  sun,  and  showers, 

There  had  been  a  lasting  spring. 

Every  thing  that  lieard  him  play, 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by. 
la  sweet  music  is  such  art ; 
Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart, 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Q.  Kath.  Hb««'  now  ?      * 
Ge%t.  An 't  please  your  grace,  the  two  great 
cardinals 
Wait  in  the  presence.^ 

Q.  Kath.  Would  they  speak  with  me  ? 

Gent.  They  will'd  me  say  so,  madam. 
Q.  Kath.  Pray  their  graces 

To  come  near.  [Exit  Gent.]  What  can  be  their 
business 
lOU 


With  me,  a  poor  weak  woman,  fallen  from  favour 
I  do  not  like  their  coming,  now  I  think  on  't. 
They  should  be  good  men ;  their  affairs  as  right 

ecus; 
But  all  hoods  make  not  monks. 

Enter  Wolsey  and  Campeius. 

Wol.  Peace  to  your  highness  ! 

Q.  Kath.  Your  graces  find  me  here  part  of  a 
housewife ; 
I  would  be  all,  against  the  worst  may  happen. 
What  are  your  pleasures  with  me,  reverend  lords 

Wol.  May  it  please  you,  noble  madam,  to  with- 
draw 
Into  your  private  chamber,  we  shall  give  you 
The  full  cause  of  our  coming. 

Q.  Kath.  Speak  it  here ; 

There 's  nothing  I  have  done  yet,  o'  my  conscience, 
Deserves  a  corner :  'Would,  all  other  women 
Could  speak  this  with  as  free  a  soul  as  I  do ! 
My  lords,  I  care  not,  (so  much  I  am  happy 
Above  a  number,)  if  my  actions 
Were  tried  by  every  tongue,  every  eye  saw  them, 
Envy  and  base  opinion  set  against  them, 
I  know  my  life  so  even :  If  your  business 
Seek  me  out,  and  that  way  I  am  wife  in," 
Out  with  it  boldly :  Truth  loves  open  dealing. 

Wol.  Tanta  est  erga  te  mentis  integritas,  retina 
serenissima, — 

Q.  Kath.  O,  good  my  lord,  no  Latin ; 
I  am  not  such  a  truant  since  my  coming, 
As  not  to  know  the  language  I  have  liv'd  in. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENK    I. 


A  strange  tongue  makes  my  cause  more  strange, 

suspicious ; 
Pray,  speak  in  English  :  here  are  some  will  thank 

you, 
If  you  speak  truth,  for  their  poor  mistress'  sake  ; 
Believe  me,  she  has  had  much  wrong :  Lord  car- 
dinal, 
The  willing'st  sin  I  ever  yet  committed, 
May  be  absolv'd  in  English. 

Wol.  Noble  lady, 

I  am  sorry,  my  integrity  should  breed, 
(And  service  to  his  majesty  and  you,) 
So  deep  suspicion,  where  all  faith  was  meant. 
We  come  not  by  the  way  of  accusation, 
To  taint  that  honour  every  good  tongue  blesses ; 
Nor  to  betray  you  any  way  to  sorrow  ; 
You  have  too  much,  good  lady  :  but  to  know 
How  you  stand  minded  in  the  weighty  difference 
Between  the  king  and  you  ;  and  to  deliver. 
Like  free  and  honest  men,  our  just  opinions, 
And  comforts  to  your  cause. 

Cam.  Most  honour'd  madam, 

My  lord  of  York, — out  of  his  noble  nature, 
Zeai  and  obedience  he  still  bore  your  grace ; 
Forgetting,  like  a  good  man,  your  late  censure 
Both  of  his  truth  and  him,  (which  was  too  far,) — 
Offers,  as  I  do,  in  a  sign  of  peace. 
His  service  and  his  counsel. 

Q.  Kath.  To  betray  me.  \Aside. 

My  lords,  I  thank  you  both  for  your  good  wills, 
Ye  speak  like  honest  men,  (pray  God,  ye  prove  so !) 
But  how  to  make  you  suddenly  an  answer. 
In  such  a  point  of  weight,  so  near  mine  honour, 
(More  near  my  life,  I  fear,)  with  my  weak  wit, 
And  to  such  men  of  gravity  and  learning. 
In  truth,  I  know  not.     I  was  set  at  work 
Among  ray  maids  ;  full  little,  God  knows,  looking 
Either  for  such  men,  or  such  business. 
For  her  sake  that  I  have  been,  (for  I  feel 
The  last  fit  of  my  greatness,)  good  your  graces, 
Let  me  have  time,  and  counsel,  for  my  cause  ; 
Alas !  I  am  a  woman,  friendless,  hopeless. 

Wol.  Madam,  you  wrong  the  king's  love  with 
these  fears ; 
Your  hopes  and  friends  are  infinite. 

Q.  Kath.  In  England, 

But  little  for  my  profit :  Can  you  think,  lords, 
Tha'.  any  Englishman  dare  give  me  counsel  ? 
Or   be    a   known    friend,    'gainst    his    highness' 

pleasure, 
(Though  he  be  grown  so  desperate  to  be  honest,) 
And  live  a  subject  ?     Nay,  forsooth,  my  friends, 


They  that  must  weigh  out  my  afflictions. 
They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to,  live  not  here  : 
They  are,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  far  hence, 
In  mine  own  country,  lords. 

Cam.  I  would,  your  grace 

Would  leave  your  griefs,  and  take  my  counsel. 

Q.  Kath.  How,  sir  1 

Cam.  Put  your  main  cause  into  the  king's  pro- 
tection ; 
He's  loving,  and  most  gracious;  'twill  be  much 
Both  for  your  honour  better,  and  your  cause ; 
For,  if  the  trial  of  the  law  o'ertake  you, 
You  '11  part  away  disgrac'd. 

Wol.  He  tells  you  rightly. 

Q.  Kath.  Ye  tell  me  what  ye  wish  for  both,  my 
ruin : 
Is  this  your  christian  counsel?  out  upon  ye! 
Heaven  is  above  all  yet ;  there  sits  a  Judge, 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

Cam.  Your  rage  mistakes  us. 

Q.  Kath.  The  more  shame  for  ye ;  holy  men 
I  thought  ye. 
Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues ; 
But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I  fear  ye : 
Mend  them   for  shame,  my  lords.     Is  this  youi 

comfort  ? 
The  cordial  that  ye  bring  a  wretched  lady  ? 
A  woman  lost  among  ye,  laugh'd  at,  scorn'd  ? 
I  will  not  wish  ye  half  my  miseries, 
I  have  more  charity  :  But  say,  I  wam'd  ye ; 
Take  heed,  for  heaven's  sake,  take  heed,  lest  at 

once 
The  burden  of  my  sorrows  fall  upon  ye. 

Wol.  Madam,  this  is  a  mere  distraction  ; 
You  turn  the  good  we  offer  into  envy. 

Q.  Kath.    Ye  turn    me  into  nothing:    Woe 
upon  ye. 
And  all  such  false  professors!  Would  ye  have  me 
(If  you  have  any  justice,  any  pity  ; 
If  ye  be  any  thing  but  churchmen's  habits,) 
Put  my  sick  cause  into  his  hands  that  hates  me  ? 
Alas !  he  has  banish'd  me  his  bed  already ; 
His  love,  too  long  ago :  I  am  old,  my  lords, 
And  all  the  fellowship  I  hold  now  with  him 
Is  only  my  obedience.     What  can  happen 
To  me,  above  this  wretchedness?  all  your  studies 
Make  me  a  curse  like  this. 

Cam.  Your  fears  are  worse. 

Q.  Kath.  Have  I  liv'd  thus  long — (let  me  speak 
myself. 
Since  virtue  finds  no  friends,) — a  wife,  a  true  one  I 
A  woman  (I  dare  say,  without  vain-glory,) 

1076 


ACT   III. 


KING  HENKY  THE  EIGHTH. 


8CEKK   lU 


Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion  ? 

Have  I  with  all  my  full  affections 

Still  met  the  king?  lov'd  him  next  heaven?  obey'd 

him? 
Been,  out  of  fondness,  superstitious  to  him  ? 
Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him  ? 
A.nd  am  I  thus  rewarded  ?  't  is  not  well,  lords. 
Bring  me  a  constant  woman  to  her  husband, 
One  that  ne'er  dream'd  a  joy  beyond  his  pleasure ; 
And  to  that  woman,  when  she  has  done  most. 
Yet  will  I  add  an  honour, — a  great  patience. 

Wol.  Madam,  you  wander  from   the  good  we 
aim  at. 

Q.  Kath.  My  lord,  I  dare  not  make  myself  so 
guilty 
To  give  up  willingly  that  noble  title 
Your  master  wed  me  to  :  nothing  but  death 
Shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities. 

Wol.  'Pi'Hy,  hear  me. 

Q.  Kath.  'Would  I  had  never  trod  this  English 
earth. 
Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it ! 
Ye   have  angels'  faces,  but  heaven   knows  your 

hearts. 
What  will  become  of  me  now,  wretched  lady  ? 
I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living. — 
Alas!    poor  wenches,  where  are  now  your  for- 
tunes ?  [To  her  Women. 
Shipwreck'd  upon  a  kingdom,  where  no  pity, 
No  friends,  no  hope ;  no  kindred  weep  for  me, 
Almost,  no  grave  allow'd  me : — Like  the  lily, 
That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish'd, 
[  '11  hang  my  head,  and  perish. 

Wol.  If  your  grace 

Could  but  be  brought  to  know,  our  ends  are  honest, 
You  'd  feel  more  comfort :  why  should  we,  good 

lady, 
Upon  what  cause,  wrong  you  ?  alas  !  our  places, 
The  way  .of  our  profession  is  against  it; 
We  are  to  cure  such  sorrows,  not  to  sow  them. 
For  goodness'  sake,  consider  what  you  do ; 
How  you  may  hurt  yourself,  ay,  utterly 
Grow  from  the  king's  acquaintance,  by  this  carriage. 
The  hearts  of  princes  kiss  obedience, 
So  much  they  love  it;  but,  to  stubborn  spirits, 
They  swell,  and  grow  as  terrible  as  storms. 
I  know,  you  have  a  gentle,  noble  temper, 
A  soul  as  even  as  a  calm  :  Pray,  think  us 
Those  we  profess,  pf^aco-makers,  friends,  and  ser- 
vants. 

Cam.  Madam,  you  '11  find  it  so.     You  wrong 
your  virtues 
1076 


With  these  weak  women's  fears.     A  noble  spirit, 

As  yours  was  put  into  you,  ever  casts 

Such   doubts,  as  false  coin,  from   it.     The  king 

loves  you  ; 
Beware,  you  lose  it  not :  For  us,  if  you  please 
To  trust  us  in  your  business,  we  are  ready 
To  use  our  utmost  studies  in  your  service. 

Q.  Kath.  Do  what  ye  will,  my  lords :  And, 

pray,  forgive  me, 
If  I  have  us'd  myself  unmannerly  ; 
You  know,  I  am  a  woman,  lacking  wit 
To  make  a  seemly  answer  to  such  persons. 
Pray,  do  my  service  to  his  majesty : 
He  has  my  heart  yet ;  and  shall  have  my  prayers, 
While   I   shall    have   my   life.     Come,  reverend 

fathers, 
Bestow  your  counsels  on  me :  she  now  begs, 
That  little  thought,  when  she  set  footing  here. 
She  should  have  bought  her  dignities  so  dear. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  11. — Ante-chamber  to  the  King's  Ajjari- 
ment. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  the  Duke  of  Suf- 
folk, the  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  the  Lord 
Chamberlain. 

Nor.  If  you  will  now  unite  in  your  complaints 
And  force  them  Avith  a  constancy,  the  cardinal 
Cannot  stand  under  them  :  If  you  omit 
The  offer  of  this  time,  I  cannot  promise, 
But  that  you  shall  sustain  more  new  disgraces, 
With  these  you  bear  already. 

Sur.  I  am  joyful 

To  meet  the  least  occasion,  that  may  give  me 
Remembrance  of  my  father-in-law,  the  duke. 
To  be  reveng'd  on  him. 

Suf.  Which  of  the  peers 

Have  uncontemn'd  gone  by  him,  or  at  least 
Strangely  neglected  ?  when  did  he  regard 
The  stamp  of  nobleness  in  any  person. 
Out  of  himself? 

Cham.         My  lords,  you  speak  your  pleasuies; 
What  he  deserves  of  you  and  me,  I  know  ; 
What  we  can  do  to  him,  (though  now  the  tiai«j 
Gives  way  to  us,)  I  much  fear.     If  you  cannot 
Bar  his  access  to  the  king,  never  attempt 
Any  thing  on  him ;  for  he  hath  a  witchcraft 
Over  the  king  in  his  tongue. 

Nor.  O,  fear  hira  not ; 

His  spell  in  that  is  out :  the  king  hath  found 
Matter  against  him,  that  for  ever  mars 


r;:' 


ACT  in 


kIng  henry  the  eighth. 


8CKKB    n. 


The  honey  of  his  language.     No,  he 's  settled, 
Not  to  come  off,  in  his  displeasure. 

Sur.  Sir, 

I  sliould  be  glad  to  hear  such  news  as  this 
Once  every  hour. 

aYcw.  Believe  it,  this  is  true 

In  the  divorce,  his  contrary  proceedings 
Are  all  unfolded  ;  wherein  he  appears, 
As  I  could  wish  mine  enemy. 

Sur.  How  came 

His  practices  to  light  ? 

Stif.  Most  strangely. 

Sur.  0,  how,  how  ? 

S'uf.  The  cardinal's  letter  to  the  pope  miscarried. 
And  came  to  the  eye  o'  the  king ;  wherein  was  read, 
How  that  the  cardinal  did  'entreat  his  holiness 
To  stay  the  judgment  o'  the  divorce :  For  if 
It  did  take  place,  "  I  do,"  quoth  he,  "  perceive. 
My  king  is  tangled  in  affection  to 
A  creature  of  the  queen's,  lady  Anne  Bullen." 

Sur.  Has  the  king  this? 

Stif.  Believe  it. 

Sur.  Will  this  work  ? 

Cham.  The  king  in  this  perceives  him,  how  he 
coasts, 
And  hedges,  his  own  way.     But  in  this  point 
Ail  his  tricks  founder,  and  he  brings  his  physic 
After  his  patient's  death  ;  the  king  already 
Hath  married  the  fair  lady. 

Sur.  'Would  he  had  ! 

Stif.  May  you  be  happy  in  your  wish,  my  lord  ! 
For,  I  profess,  you  have  it. 

Sur.  Now  may  all  joy 

Trace  the  conjunction ! 

Suf.  My  amen  to  't  1 

JHor.  All  men's. 

Suf.  There  's  order  given  for  her  coronation  : 
Marry,  this  is  yet  but  young,  and  may  be  left 
To  some  ears  unrecounted. — But,  my  lords, 
She  is  a  gallant  creature,  and  complete 
In  mind  and  feature  :  I  persuade  me,  from  her 
Will  fall  some  blessing  to  this  land,  which  shall 
In  it  be  memoriz'd. 

Sur.  But,  will  the  king 

Digest  this  letter  of  the  cardinal's? 
The  Lord  forbid ! 

iVor.  Marry,  amen ! 

Suf.  No,  no ; 

There  be  more  wasps  that  buzz  about  his  nose, 
Will  make  this  stiiig  the  sooner.     Cardinal  Cam- 

peius 
Ib  stolen  away  to  Rome ;  hath  ta'en  no  leave ; 


Has  left  the  cause  o'  the  king  unhandled ;  and 
Is  posted,  as  the  agent  of  our  cardinal. 
To  second  all  his  plot.     I  do  assure  you 
The  king  cry'd  ha  !  at  this. 

Cham.  Now,  God  incense  him 

And  let  him  cry  ha,  louder ! 

-N'or.  But,  my  lord. 

When  returns  Cranmer? 

Suf.  He  is  return'd,  in  his  opinions ;  which 
Have  satisfied  the  king  for  his  divorce, 
Together  with  all  famous  colleges 
Almost  in  Christendom  :  shortly,  I  believe, 
His  second  marriage  shall  be  publish'd,  and 
Her  coronation.     Katharine  no  more 
Shall  be  call'd,  queen  ;  but  princess  dowager. 
And  widow  to  prince  Arthur. 

I^or.  This  same  Cranmer  'a 

A  worthy  fellow,  and  hath  ta'en  much  pain 
In  the  king's  business. 

Suf  He  has ;  and  we  shall  see  him 

For  it,  an  archbishop. 

I^or.  So  I  hear. 

Suf.  'T  is  so. 

The  cardinal — 

Enter  Wolsey  and  Cromwell. 

Nor.  Observe,  observe,  he  's  moody. 

Wol.  The  packet,  Cromwell,  gave  it  you  the 
king  ? 

Crom.  To  his  own  hand,  in  his  bedchamber. 

Wol.  Look'd  he  o'  the  inside  of  the  paper  ? 

Crom.  Presently 

He  did  unseal  them :  and  the  first  he  view'd, 
He  did  it  with  a  serious  mind  ;  a  heed 
Was  in  his  countenance  :  You,  he  bade 
Attend  him  here  this  morning. 

Wol.  Is  he  ready 

To  come  abroad  ? 

Cro7n.  I  think,  by  this  he  is. 

Wol.  Leave  me  a  while. —  [Exit  Crom. 

It  shall  be  to  the  duchess  of  Alengon, 
The  French  king's  sister:  he  .shall  marry  her. — 
Anne  Bullen  !  No ;  I  '11  no  Anne  BuUens  for  him : 
There  is  more  in  it  than  fair  visage. — Bullen  1 
No,  we  '11  no  Bullens. — Speedily  I  wish 
To  hear  from  Rome. — The  marchioness  of  Pem- 
broke I 

Nor.  He  's  discontented. 

Suf.  May  be,  he  hears  the  king 

Does  whet  his  anger  to  him. 

Sur.  Sharp  enough, 

Lord,  for  thy  justice  I 

Win 


ACT    III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  ElGHrH. 


SCENE  n. 


Wbl.  The  late  queen's  getitlewoman ;  a  knight's 
daughter, 
To  be  her  mistress'  mistress !  the  queen's  queen ! — 
This  candle  burns  not  clear :  't  is  I  must  snuff  it : 
Then,  out  it  goes. — What  though  I  know  her  vir- 
tuous. 
And  well-deserving  ?  yet  I  know  her  for 
A  spleeny  Lutheran  ;  and  not  wholesome  to 
Our  cause,  that  she  should  lie  i'  the  bosom  of 
Our  hard-rul'd  king.     Again,  there  is  sprung  up 
An  heretic,  an  arch  one,  Cranmer ;  one 
Hath  crawl'd  into  the  favour  of  the  king, 
And  is  his  oracle. 

^or.  He  is  vex'd  at  something. 

Suf.  I  would,  't  were  something  that  would 
fret  the  string. 
The  master-cord  of  his  heart ! 

Enter  the  King,  reading  a  Schedule  ;"  and 

LOVELL. 

Suf.  The  king,  the  king. 

K.  Hen.  What  piles  of  wealth  hath  he  accu- 
mulated 
To  his  own  portion  !  and  what  expense  by  the  hour 
Seems  to  flow  from  him  1    How,  i'  the  name  of 

thrift, 
Does  he  rake  this  together  1 — Now,  my  lords ; 
Saw  you  the  cardinal  ? 

Nor.  My  lord,  we  have 

Stood  here  observing  him  :  Some  strange  commo- 
tion 
Is  in  his  brain  :  he  bites  his  lip,  and  starts ; 
Stops  on  a  sudden,  looks  upon  the  ground. 
Then,  lays  his  finger  on  his  temple  ;  straight, 
Springs  out  into  fast  gate;  then,  stops  again, 
Strikes  his  breast  hard  ;  and  anon,  he  casts 
His  eye  against  the  moon :  in  most  strange  postures 
We  have  seen  him  set  himself. 

K.  Hen.  It  may  well  be ; 

There  is  a  mutiny  in  his  mind.     This  morning 
Papers  of  state  he  sent  me  to  peruse, 
As  I  requir'd :  And,  wot  you,  what  I  found 
There;  on  my  conscience,  put  unwittingly? 
Forsooth,  an  inventory,  thus  importing, — 
The  several  parcels  of  his  plate,  his  treasure. 
Rich  stuffs,  and  ornaments  of  household  ;  which 
I  find  at  such  proud  rate,  that  it  out-speaks 
Possession  of  a  subject. 

Nor.  It 's  heaven's  will ; 

Some  spirit  put  this  paper  in  the  packet, 
To  bless  your  eye  witlial. 

K.  Hen.  If  we  did  think 

1078 


His  contemplation  were  above  the  earth, 
And  fix'd  on  spiritual  object,  he  should  still 
Dwell  in  his  musings :  but,  I  am  afraid. 
His  thinkings  are  below  the  moon,  not  worth 
His  serious  considering. 

[ZTe  takes  his  seat,  and  whispers  Lev.,  whc 
goes  to  WoL. 

Wol.  Heaven  forgive  me ! 

Ever  God  bless  your  highness  ! 

K.  Hen,  Good  my  lord. 

You  are  full  of  heavenly  stuff,  and  bear  the  in- 
ventory 
Of  your  best  graces  in  your  mind  ;  the  which 
You  were  now  running  o'er ;  you  have  scarce  time 
To  steal  from  spiritual  leisure  a  brief  span. 
To  keep  your  earthly  audit :  Sure,  in  that 
I  deem  you  an  ill  husband  ;  and  am  glad 
To  have  you  therein  my  companion. 

Wol.  Sir, 

For  holy  oflSces  I  have  a  time ;  a  time 
To  think  upon  the  part  of  business,  which 
I  bear  i'  the  state ;  and  nature  does  require 
Her  times  of  preservation,  which,  perforce, 
I  her  frail  son,  amongst  my  brethren  mortal, 
Must  give  my  tendance  to. 

K.  Hen.  You  have  said  well. 

Wol.  And  ever  may  your  highness  yoke  to 
gether. 
As  I  will  lend  you  cause,  my  doing  well 
With  my  well  saying ! 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  well  said  again ; 

And  't  is  a  kind  of  good  deed,  to  say  well : 
And  yet  words  are  no  deeds.   My  father  lov'd  you : 
He  said,  he  did  ;  and  with  his  deed  did  crown 
His  word  upon  you.     Since  I  had  my  office, 
I  have  kept  you  next  my  heart ;  have  not  alone 
Employ'd  you  where  high  profits  might  come 

home, 
But  par'd  my  present  havings,  to  bestow 
My  bounties  upon  you. 

Wol.  What  should  this  mean  ? 

Sur.  The  Lord  increase  this  business  !     \^Aside, 
K.  Hen.  Have  I  not  made  you 

The  prime  man  of  the  state  ?    I  pray  you,  tell  me, 
K  what  I  now  pronounce,  you  have  found  true : 
And,  if  you  may  confess  it,  say  withal, 
If  you  are  bound  to  us,  or  no.     What  say  you  ? 

Wol.  My  sovereign,  I  confess,  your  royal  graces, 
Shower'd  on  me  daily,  have  been  more  than  could 
My  studied  purposes  requite ;  which  went 
Beyond  all  man's  endeavours : — my  endeavours 
Have  ever  come  too  short  of  my  desires. 


Acr  rri. 


KmG  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE   II. 


Yet,  fiPd  with  my  abilities :  Mine  own  ends 
Have  been  mine  so,  that  evermore  they  pointed 
To  the  good  of  your  most  sacred  person,  and 
The  profit  of  the  state.     For  your  great  graces 
Heap'd  upon  me,  poor  undeserver,  I 
Can  nothing  render  but  allegiant  thanks  ; 
My  prayers  to  heaven  for  you  ;  my  loyalty, 
\Miich  ever  has,  and  ever  shall  be  growing, 
Till  death,  that  winter,  kill  it. 

K.  Hen.  Fairly  answer'd ; 

A  loyal  and  obedient  subject  is 
Therein  illustrated  :  The  honour  of  it 
Does  pay  the  act  of  it ;  as,  i'  the  contrary, 
The  foulness  is  the  punishment.     I  presume, 
That,  as  my  hand  has  open'd  bounty  to  you, 
My  lieart  dropp'd  love,  my  power  rain'd  honour 

more 
On  you,  than  any ;  so  your  hand,  and  heart, 
Your  brain,  and  every  function  of  your  power. 
Should,  notwithstanding  that  your  bond  of  duty, 
As  't  were  in  love's  particular,  be  more 
To  me,  your  friend,  than  any. 

Wol.  I  do  profess. 

That  for  your  highness'  good  I  ever  labour'd 
More  than  mine  own  ;  that  am,  have,  and  will  be. 
Though  all  the  world  should  crack  their  duty  to 

you, 
And  throw  it  from  their  soul ;  though  perils  did 
Abound,  as  thick  as  thought  could  make  them,  and 
Appear  in  forms  more  horrid ;  yet  my  duty, 
As  doth  a  rock  against  the  chiding  flood, 
Should  the  approach  of  this  wild  river  break, 
And  stand  unshaken  yours. 

K.  Hen.  'T  is  nobly  spoken  : 

Take  notice,  lords,  he  has  a  loyal  breast, 
For  you  have  seen  him  open  't. — Read  o'er  this : 

\^Qiving  him  Papers. 
And,  after,  this :  and  then  to  breakfast,  with 
What  appetite  you  have. 

[Exit  KisQ,  frowning  upon  Wolsey  :  the 
Nobles  throng  after  him,  smiling  and 
whispering. 

Wol.  What  should  this  mean  ? 

What  sudden  anger 's  this  ?  how  have  I  reap'd  it  ? 
He  parted  frowning  from  me,  as  if  ruin 
Leap'd  from  his  eyes :  So  looks  the  chafed  lion 
Upon  the  daring  huntsman  that  has  gall'd  him ; 
Then  makes  him  nothing.    I  must  read  this  paper ; 
1  fear  the  story  of  his  anger. — 'T  is  so  ; 
This  paper  has  undone  me : — 'T  is  the  account 
Of  all  that  world  of  wealth  I  have  drawn  together 
For  mine  own  ends ;  indeci,  to  gain  the  popedom. 


And  fee  my  friends  in  Rome.     0  negligence. 
Fit  for  a  fool  to  fall  by  1  What  cross  devil 
Made  me  put  this  main  secret  in  the  packet 
I  sent  the  king  ?     Is  there  no  way  to  cure  this  \ 
No  new  device  to  beat  this  from  his  brains  ? 
I  know,  't  will  stir  him  strongly  :  Yet  I  know 
A  way,  if  it  take  right,  in  spite  of  fortune 
Will  bring  me  off  again.     What 's  this — "  To  th« 

Pope?" 
The  letter,  as  I  live,  with  all  the  business 
I  writ  to  his  holiness.     Nay  then,  farewell ! 
I  hare  touch'd  the  highest  point  of  all  my  great- 
ness ; 
And,  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory, 
I  haste  now  to  my  setting :  I  shall  fall 
Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
And  no  man  see  me  more.  ' 

Re-enter  the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk, 
the  Earl  of  Surrey,  and  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain. 

Nor.  Hear  the  king's  pleasure,  cardinal :  who 

commands  you 
To  render  up  the  great  seal  presently 
Into  our  hands ;  and  to  confine  yourself 
To  Asher-house,  my  lord  of  Winchester's," 
Till  you  hear  further  fi-om  his  highness. 

Wol.  Stay, 

Where  's  your  commission,  lords  ?  words  cannot 

carry 
Authority  so  weighty. 

Suf.  Who  dare  cross  them  ? 

Bearing  the  king's  will  from  his  mouth  expressly  ? 
V/ol.  Till  I  find  more  than  will,  or  words,  to 

do  it, 
(I  mean,  your  malice,)  know,  officious  lords, 
I  dare,  and  must  deny  it.     Now  I  feel 
Of  what  coarse  metal  ye  are  moulded, — envy. 
How  eagerly  ye  follow  my  disgraces. 
As  if  it  fed  ye  !  and  how  sleek  and  wanton 
Ye  appear  in  every  thing  may  bring  my  ruin! 
Follow  your  envious  courses,  men  of  malice ; 
You  have  christian  warrant  for  them,  and,  no 

doubt, 
In  time  will  find  their  fit  rewards.     That  sea.. 
You  ask  with  such  a  violence,  the  king, 
(Mine,  and  your  master,)  with  his  own  hand  gava 

me: 
Bade  me  enjoy  it,  with  the  place  and  honours. 
During  my  life ;  and,  to  confirm  hia  goodness, 
Tied  it  by  letters  patents :  Now,  who  '11  take  it  I 
Sur.  The  king,  that  gave  it. 

1099 


ACl    III. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


Wol.  It  must  be  himself  then. 

Sur.  Thou  art  a  proud  traitor,  priest. 

Wol.  Proud  lord,  thou  liest; 

♦Vithin  these  forty  hours  Surrey  durst  better 
[lave  burnt  that  tongue,  than  said  so. 

Sur.  Thy  ambition, 

Thou  scarlet  sin,  robb'd  this  bewailing  land 
Of  noble  Buckingham,  my  father-in-law: 
The  heads  of  all  thy  brother  cardinals, 
(With  thee,  and  all  thy  best  parts  bound  together,) 
Weigb'd  not  a  hair  of  his.    Plague  of  your  policy  ! 
You  sent  me  deputy  for  Ireland ; 
Far  from  his  succour,  from  the  king,  from  all 
That  might  have  mercy  on  the  fault  thou  gav'st 

him ; 
Whilst  your  great  goodness,  out  of  holy  pity, 
Absolv'd  him  with  an  axe. 

Wol.  This,  and  all  else 

This  talking  lord  can  lay  upon  my  credit, 
I  answer,  is  most  false.     The  duke  by  law 
Found  his  deserts :  how  innocent  I  was 
From  any  private  malice  in  his  end. 
His  noble  jury  and  foul  cause  can  witness. 
If  I  lov'd  many  words,  lord,  I  should  tell  you. 
You  have  as  little  honesty  as  honour ; 
That  I,  in  the  way  of  loyalty  and  truth, 
Toward  the  king,  my  ever  royal  master. 
Dare  mate  a  sounder  man  than  Surrey  can  be, 
And  all  that  love  his  follies. 

Sur.  By  my  soul, 

Your  long  coat,  priest,  protects  you  ;  thou  should'st 

feel 
My  sword  i'  the  life-blood  of  thee  else. — My  lords, 
Can  ye  endure  to  hear  this  arrogance  ? 
And  from  this  fellow  ?     If  we  live  thus  tamely. 
To  be  thus  jaded  by  a  piece  of  scarlet. 
Farewell  nobility;  let  his  grace  go  forward. 
And  dare  us  with  his  cap,  like  lai'ks. 

Wol.  All  goodness 

Is  poison  to  thy  stomach. 

Sur.  Yes,  that  goodness 

Of  gleaning  all  the  land's  wealth  into  one, 
xnto  your  own  hands,  cardinal,  by  extortion ; 
The  goodness  of  your  intercepted  packets, 
Yuu  writ  to  the  pope,  against  the  king :   your 

goodness, 
biuce  you  provoke  me,  shall  be  most  notorious. — 
My  lord  of  Norfolk, — as  you  are  truly  noble, 
As  you  respect  the  common  good,  the  state 
Of  our  despis'd  nobility,  our  issues. 
Who,  if  he  live,  will  scarce  be  gentlemen, — 
Produce  the  grand  sum  of  his  sins,  the  articles 
1080 


Collected  from  his  life: — I  '11  startle  you 

Worse  than    the   sacring   bell,  when  thf-,  brown 

wench'' 
Lay  kissing  in  your  arms,  lord  cardinal. 

Wol.  How  much,  methinks,  I  could  despisd  this 
man, 
But  that  I  am  bound  in  charity  against  it  ! 

JV^or.  Those  articles,  my  lord,  are  in  the  king's 
hand : 
But,  thus  much,  they  are  foul  ones. 

Wol.  So  much  fairer, 

And  spotless,  shall  mine  innocence  arise. 
When  the  king  knows  my  truth. 

Sur.  This  cannot  save  you  : 

I  thank  my  memory,  I  yet  remember 
Some  of  these  articles;  and  out  they  shall. 
Now,  if  you  can  blush,  and  cry  guilty,  cardinal. 
You  '11  show  a  little  honesty. 

Wol.  Speak  on,  sir; 

I  dare  your  worst  objections  :  if  I  blush. 
It  is,  to  see  a  nobleman  want  manners. 

Sur.   I  'd   rather  want  those,  than   my  head. 
Have  at  you. 
First,  that,  without  the  king's  assent,  or  kno7rI:-<dga, 
You  wrought  to  be  a  legate  ;  by  which  power 
You  maim'd  the  jurisdiction  of  all  bisliops. 

JVor.  Then,  that  in  all  you  writ  to  Rome,  ot 
else 
To  foreign  princes,  Ugo  et  Rex  ineus 
Was  still  inscrib'd  ;  in  which  you  brought  the  king 
To  be  your  servant. 

Suf.  Then,  that,  without  the  knowledge 

Either  of  king  or  council,  when  you  wont 
Ambassador  to  the  emperor,  you  made  bold 
To  carry  into  Flanders  the  great  seal. 

Sur.  Item,  you  sent  a  large  commission 
To  Gregory  de  Cassalis,  to  conclude, 
Without  the  king's  will,  or  the  state's  allowance, 
A  league  between  his  highness  and  Ferrara. 
Suf.  That,  out  of  mere   ambition,  you    have 
caus'd 
Your  holy  hat  to  be  stamp'd  on  the  king's  coin. 
Sur.  Then,   that  you   have  sent  innumerable 
substance, 
(By  what  means  got,  I  leave  to   your  own  con- 
science,) 
To  furnish  Rome,  and  to  prepare  the  ways 
You  have  for  dignities  :  to  the  mere  undoing 
Of  all  the  kingdom.     Many  more  there  are; 
Which,  since  they  are  of  you,  and  odious, 
I  will  not  taint  my  mouth  with. 

Cham.  O  my  lord, 


■  so  rAH£WELL  TO  tllE  LITTLE  GOOD  YOU  BKARltR, 

EAR-E'/raLL,  A  LOHG  w.^HE^WELL  TO  ALL  MY  GREATNESS' 

'Kinj  Henry  VIM  .\cr3.Sc2 


ACT   III. 


KI'NG  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE    n. 


Pi-ess  not  a  fnlling  man  too  for;  't  is  virtue  : 

His  faults  lie  open  to  the  laws ;  let  them, 

Not  jou,   correct  him.     My  heart   weeps  to  see 

him 
So  little  of  his  great  self. 

Sur.  I  forgive  him. 

Su/.  Lord  cardinal,  the  king's  further  pleasure 
is,— - 
Because  all  those  things,  you  have  done  of  late 
Py  your  power  legatine  within  this  kingdom, 
Fall  into  the  compass  of  a,  jjrcemuniie, — 
That  therefore  such  a  writ  be  sufd  aguust  you  ; 
To  forfeit  all  your  goods,  lands,  tenements, 
Chattels,  and  whatsoever,  and  to  be 
Out  of  the  king's  protection: — This  is  my  charge. 

I^or,  And  so  we  '11  leave  you  to  your  medita- 
tions 
How  to  live  better.     For  your  stubl»orn  answer, 
About  the  giving  back  the  great  seal  to  us, 
The  king  shall  know  it,  and,  no  duubt,  shall  thank 

you. 
So  fare  you  well,  my  little  good  lord  cardinal. 

[£xeunt  all  bat  Wol. 

Wol.  So  farewell  to  the  little  good  you  bear  me. 
Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness  ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man  :  To-day  he  [)Uts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-morrow  blossoms. 
And  bears  his  blushing  honours  thick  upon  him  : 
The  third  day,  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And, — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a  ripening, — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventur'd. 
Like  little,  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders. 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory; 
But  far  beyond  my  depth  :  my  high-blown  pride  ' 
At  length  broke  under  me;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  must  for  ever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp,  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye  ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd :  0,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man,  that  hangs  on  princes'  favours  ! 
There  is,  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to. 
That  sweet  aspect  of  princes,  and  their  ruin. 
More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have  ; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. — 

JEnter  Cromwell,  amazedly. 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell  ? 
Crom.  I  have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 
Wol.  What,  amaz'd 

At  Tpy  raisfoituues  ?  can  thy  spirit  wonder, 

ISC 


A  great  man  should  decline?     Nay,  an  you  weep, 
I  am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  'i 

Wol.  Why,  well ; 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 
I  know  myself  now  ;  and  I  feel  within  me 
A  peace  above  all  earthly  dignities, 
A  still  and  quiet  conscience.     The  king  has  cur'd 

me, 
I  humbly    thank   his    grace ;    and    from     these 

shoulders, 
These  ruin'd  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy,  too  much  honour: 
0,  't  is  a  burden,  Cromwell,  't  is  a  burden. 
Too  heavy  for  a  man  that  hopes  for  heaven. 

Crom    I  am  glad,  your  grace  has  made  that 
right  use  of  it. 

Wol.  I  hope,  I  have  :  I  am  able  now,  methinks, 
(Out  of  a  fortitude  of  soul  I  feel,) 
To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far. 
Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 
What  news  abroad  ? 

Crom.  The  heaviest,  and  the  worst, 

Is  your  displeasui'e  with  the  king. 

Wol.  God  bless  hira 

Crom.  The  next  is,  that  sir  Thomas  More  is 
chosen 
Lord  chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol.  That  's  somewhat  sudden  : 

Rut  he  's  a  learned  man.  May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness'  favour,  and  do  justice 
For   truth's   sake,    and    his   conscience ;  that   his 

bones. 
When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  bless- 
ings, 
May  have  a  tomb  of  orphans'  tears  wept  on  'em  ! 
What  more  ? 

Crom.  That  Cranmer  is  retiirn'd  with  welcome, 
Install'd  lord  archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wol.  That 's  news  indeed. 

Crom.  Last,  that  tho  lady  Anne, 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 
This  day  was  view'd  in  open,  as  his  queen. 
Going  to  chapel ;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  coronation. 

Wol.    There   was   the    we'ight  that  pull'd   me 
down.     O  Cromwell, 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me,  all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I  have  lost  for  ever : 
No  sun  shall  ever  usher  forth  mine  honours, 
Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.   Go,  get  thee  from  me.  Cromwell; 

1081 


! 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SOENB!   L 


[  am  a  poor  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master :  Seek  the  king ; 
That  sun,  I  pray,  may  never  set !  I  have  told  him 
What,  and  how  true  thou  art :  he  will  advance 

thee ; 
Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him, 
(1  know  his  noble  nature,)  not  to  let 
Thy  hopeful  service  perish  too :  Good  Cromwell, 
Neglect  him  not;  make  use  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  O  my  lord, 

Must  I  then  leave  you  ?  must  I  needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a  master  ? 
Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 
With  what  a  sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. — 
The  king  shall  have  my  service  ;  but  my  prayers, 
For  evei",  and  for  ever,  shall  be  yours. 

Wol.  Cromwell,  I  did  not  think  to  shed  a  tear 
In  all  my  miseries ;  but  thou  hast  forc'd  me 
Out  of  thy  honest  truth  to  play  the  woman. 
Let 's  dry  our  eyes  :  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Crom- 
well ; 
And, — when  I  am  forgotten,  as  I  shall  be ; 
And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of, — say,  I  taught  thee. 
Say,  Wolcoy, — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory. 
And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honour, — 
Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in ; 


A  sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  miss'd  it, 
Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruin'd  me. 
Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition; 
By  that  sin  fell  the  angels  ;  how  can  man  then. 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  't  ? 
Love  thyself  last:  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate 

thee ; 
Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 
Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 
To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just,  and  fear 

not : 
Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's  ;  then  if  thou   fall'st,  0 

Cromwell, 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr.     Serve  the  king  j 
And, — Pr'ythee,  lead  me  in  : 
There  take  an  inventory  of  all  I  have. 
To  the  last  penny ;  't  is  the  king's  :  my  robe. 
And  my  integrity  to  heaven,  is  all 
I  dare  now  call  mine  own.     O  Cromwell,  Crom- 
well, 
Had  I  but  serv'd  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I  serv'd  my  king,  he  would  not  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 
Crom.  Good  sir,  have  patience. 
Wol.  So  I  have.     Farewell 

The  hopes  of  court  1  my  hopes  in  heaven  do  dwell. 

\ExeuyM 


ACT    lY. 


SCENE  I.— A  Street  in  Westminster. 

Enter  Two  Gentlemen,  meeting. 

\st  Gent.  You  are  well  met  once  aofain. 
2nd  Gent.  And  so  are  you. 

1st  Gent.  You  come  to  take  your  stand  here, 
and  behold 
The  lady  Anne  pass  from  her  coronation  ? 

2nd  Gent.  'T  is  all  my  business.     At  our  last 
encounter, 
fhe  duke  of  Buckmgham  came  from  his  trial. 
1st  Gent.  'T  is  very  true :  but  that  time  ofFer'd 
sorrow ;    ■ 
This,  general  joy. 

2nd  Gent.         'T  is  well :  The  citizens, 
1082 


I  am  sure,  have  shown  at  full  their  royal  minds ; 
As,  let  them  have  their  rights,  they  are  ever  forward 
In  celebration  of  this  day  with  shows, 
Pageants,  and  sights  of  honour. 

1st  Gent.  Never  greater, 

Nor,  I  '11  assure  you,  better  taken,  sir. 

2nd  Gent.  May  I  be  bold  to  ask  what  that  ecu 
tains. 
That  paper  in  your  hand  ? 

1st  Gent.  Yes;  't  is  the  list 

Of  those,  that  claim  their  offices  this  day. 
By  custom  of  the  coronation. 
The  duke  of  Suffolk  is  the  first,  and  claims 
To  be  high  steward  ;  next,  the  duke  of  Norfolk, 
He  to  be  earl  marshal ;  you  may  read  the  rosL 


ACT    IV. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCEKS   I. 


2nd  Gent.  I  thank  you,  sir;  had  I  not  known 
those  customs, 
I  should  have  been  beholden  to  your  paper. 
But,  I  beseech  you,  what 's  become  of  Katharine, 
The  princess  dowager  ?  how  goes  her  business  ? 
1st  Gent.  That  I  can  tell  you  too.     The  arch- 
bishop 
Of  Canterbury,  accompanied  with  other 
Learned  and  reverend  fathers  of  his  order. 
Held  a  late  court  at  Dunstable,  six  miles  off 
From  Ampthill,  where  the  princess  lay;  to  which 
She  oft  was  cited  by  them,  but  appear'd  not: 
And,  to  be  short,  for  not  appearance,  and 
The  king's  late  scruple,  by  the  main  assent 
Of  all  these  learned  men  she  was  divorc'd, 
And  the  late  marriage  made  of  none  effect : 
Since  which,  she  was  removed  to  Kimbolton, 
Where  she  remains  now,  sick. 

2nd  Gent.  Alas,  good  lady  ! — 

l^Trumpets. 
ITie  trumpets  sound  :  stand  close,  the  queen  is 
coming 

TILE    ORDER   OF    THE    PHO0ES8ION. 

A  lively  jlou7%sh  of  Trumpets  i  then  enter 

1    T'K}  Judges. 

2.  Lord  Clumcellor,  with  the  purse  and  mace  before  him. 

8.  Cliorister.s  singing.  \Music. 

4.  Mayor  of  London  bearing  the  mace.    Then  Garter,  in 

h)3  coat  of  arms,  and  on  his  liead,  a  gilt  copper 
crown. 

5.  Marquis  Dorset,  bearing  a  sceptre  of  gold,  on  his  head 

a  demi-coronal  of  gold.  With  him,  the  Earl  of 
Surrey,  bearing  the  rod  of  silver  with  the  dove, 
crowned  with  an  earl's  coronet.     Collars  of  SS. 

6.  Dnke  of  Suffolk,  in  his  robe  of  estate,  his  coronet  on  his 

head,  bearing  a  long  white  wand,  as  high-steward. 
With  xwivi,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  witii  the  rod  of 
marshalship,  a  coronet  on  his  head.     Collars  of  SS. 

7.  A  canopy  borne  by  four  of  the  Cinque-ports  ;  under  it, 

the  Queen  in  her  robe;  her  hair  richly  adorned 
with  pearl,  crowned.  On  each  side  of  her,  the 
Bishopa  i^f  London  and  Winchester. 

8.  Tlie  old   Duchess   of  Norfolk,  in   a  coronal   of  gold, 

wrought  with  flowers,  bearing  the  tiueen's  train. 

9.  Certain  Ladies  or  Countesses,  with  plain  circlets  of  gold 

without  flowers. 

'Ind  Gent.  A  royal  train,  believe  me. — These  I 
know ; — 
Who  's  that,  that  bears  the  sceptre  ? 

\st  Gent.  Marquis  Dorset : 

And  that  the  earl  of  Surrey,  with  the  rod. 

2nd  Gent.  A  bold  brave  gentleman  :  And  that 
should  be 
Tlie  duke  of  Suffolk. 

\»t  Gent.  'T  is  the  same ;  high-steward. 


2nd  Gent.  And  that  my  lord  of  Norfolk  ? 
1st  Gent.  Yes. 

2nd  Gent.  Heaven  bless  thee ! 

[^Looking  on  the  Queen, 
Thou  hast  the  sweetest  face  I  ever  look'd  on. — 
Sir,  as  I  have  a  soul,  she  is  an  angel ; 
Our  king  has  all  the  Indies  in  his  arms, 
And  more,  and  richer,  when  he  strains  that  lady : 
I  cannot  blame  his  conscience. 

Ist  Gent.  They,  that  bear 

The  cloth  of  honour  over  her,  are  four  barons 
Of  the  Cinque-ports. 

2nd  Gent.  Those  men  are  happy ;  and  so  are 
all,  are  near  her. 
I  take  it,  she  that  carries  up  the  train, 
Is  that  old  noble  lady,  duchess  of  Norfolk. 

\st  Gent.  It  is;  and  all  the  rest  are  countesses, 
2nd  Gent.  Their  coronets  say  so.     These  are 
stars,  indeed ; 
And,  sometimes,  falling  ones. 

\st  Gent.  No  more  of  that. 

\_Exit  Procession^  with  a  great  flourish  oj 
Trumpets. 

Enter  a  Third  Gentleman. 

God  save  you,  sir  I     Where  have  you  been  broil- 
ing ? 

^rd   Gent.    Among   the   crowd   i'  the   abbej, 
where  a  finger 
Could  not  be  vvedg'd  in  more ;  and  I  am  stifled 
With  the  mere  rankness  of  their  joy. 

2nd  Gent.  You  saw 

The  ceremony  ? 

^rd  Gent.         That  I  did. 

\st  Gent.  How  was  it 

3?-(f  Gent.  Well  worth  the  seeing. 

2nd  Gent.  Good  sir,  speak  it  to  us 

Zrd  Gent.  As  well  as  I  am  able.  The  rich  stream 
Of  lords,  and  ladies,  having  brought  the  queen 
To  a  prepar'd  place  in  the  choir,  fell  off 
A  distance  from  her;  while  her  grace  sat  dowE. 
To  rest  a  while,  some  half  an  hour,  or  so, 
In  a  rich  chair  of  state,  opposing  freely 
The  beauty  of  her  person  to  the  people. 
Believe  me,  sir,  she  is  the  goodliest  woman 
That  ever  lay  by  man  :  which  when  the  people 
Had  the  full  view  of,  such  a  noise  arose 
As  the  shrouds  make  at  sea  in  a  stiff  tempest, 
As  loud,  and  to  as  many  tunes:  hats,  cloaks, 
(Doublets,  I  think,)  flew  up;  and  had  their  faces 
l^een  loose,  this  day  they  had  been  lost.     Such  joj 
I  never  saw  before.     Great-bellied  women, 

loss 


ACT    IV 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCEKB    II. 


That  liad  not  half  a  week  to  go,  like  rams 
In  the  old  time  of  war,  would  shake  the  press, 
And  make  them  reel  before  them.     No  man  Hving 
Could  say,   "  This  is  ray  wife,"  there  ;  all  were 

woven 
So  strangely  in  one  piece. 

2nd  Gent.  But,  'pray,  what  follow'd? 

Zrd  Gent.  At  length  her  grace  rose,  and  with 
modest  paces 
Came  to  the  altar ;  where  she  kneel'd,  and,  saint- 
like. 
Cast  her  fair  eyes  to  heaven,  and  pray'd  devoutly. 
Then  rose  again,  and  bow'd  her  to  the  people : 
When  by  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury 
She  had  all  the  royal  makings  of  a  queen  ; 
As  holy  oil,  Edward  Confessor's  crown. 
The  rod,  and  bird  of  peace,  and  all  such  emblems 
Laid  nobly  on  her:  which  perform'd,  the  choir 
With  all  the  choicest  music  of  the  kingdom. 
Together  siing  Te  Deum.     So  she  parted, 
And  with  the  same  full  state  pac'd  back  again 
To  York-place,  where  the  feast  is  held. 

\st  Gent.  Sir,  you 

Must  no  more  call  it  York-place,  that  is  past : 
For,  since  the  cardinal  fell,  tliat  title  's  lost; 
'T  is  now  the  king's,  and  call'd — Whitehall. 

3?'rf  Gent.  T  know  it ; 

But  't  is  so  lately  alter'd,  that  the  old  name 
Is  fresh  about  me. 

2nd  Gent.  What  two  reverend  bishops 

Were  those  that  went  on  each  side  of  the  queen  ? 

Zrd  Gent.  Stokesly  and  Gardiner ;  the  one,  of 
Winchester, 
(Newly  preferr'd  from  the  king's  secretary,) 
The  other,  London. 

2nd  Gent.  He  of  Winchester 

Is  held  no  great  good  lover  of  the  archbishop's, 
The  virtuous  Cranmer. 

Zrd  Gent.  All  the  land  knows  that: 

However,  yet  there  's  no  great  breach ;  when  it 

comes, 
Cranmer  will  find  a  friend  will  not  shrink  from  him 

2nd  Gent.  Who  may  that  bo,  I  pray  you  ? 

Zrd  Gent.  Thomas  Cromwell ; 

A  man  in  much  esteem  with  the  king,  and  truly 
A  worthy  friend. — The  king 
Hiis  made  him  master  o'  the  jewel-house, 
And  one,  already,  of  the  privy-council. 

'Ind  Gent.  He  will  deserve  more. 

3vc/  Gent.  Ves,  without  all  doubt. 

Come,  genilemen,  ye  shall  go  my  way,  which 
Is  to  the  court,  an(J  there  ye  shall  be  my  guests ; 
1084 


Something  I  can  command.     As  I  walk  thither 
I  '11  tell  ye  more. 

Both.  You  may  command  us,  sir. 

[Exewnu 

SCENE  11.— Kimbolton. 

Enter  Katharine,  Dowager,  ifick ;   led  between 
Griffith  and  Patience. 

Grif.  How  does  jour  grace? 

Kuth.  0,  Griffith,  sick  to  death: 

My  legs,  like  loaden  branches,  bow  to  the  earth, 
Willing  to  leave  their  burden  :  Reach  a  chair ; — 
So, — now,  raethinks,  I  feel  a  little  ease. 
Didst  thou  not  tell  me,  Griffith,  as  thou  led'st  mt 
That  the  great  child  of  honour,  cardinal  Wolsey, 
Was  dead  ? 

Grif.       Yes,  madam  ;  but,  I  think,  your  grai^ 
Out  of  the  pain  you  suffer'd,  gave  no  ear  to  't. 

Kath.  Pr'ythee,  good  Griffith,  tell  me  how  he 
died  : 
If  well,  he  stepp'd  before  me,  happily. 
For  my  example. 

Grif.  Well,  the  voice  goes,  madam  : 

For  after  the  stout  earl  Northumberland 
Arrested  him  at  York,  and  brought  him  forward 
(As  a  man  sorely  tainted,)  to  his  answer, 
He  fell  sick  suddenly,  and  grew  so  ill, 
He  could  not  sit  his  mule. 

Kath.  Alas,  poor  man. 

Grif.    At  last,  with   easy   roads,   he   came  to 
Leicester, 
Lodg'd  in  the  abbey ;  where  the  reverend  abbot, 
With  all  his  convent,  honourably  receiv'd  him  ; 
To  whom  he  gave  these  words, — "  0  father  abbot, 
An  old  man,  broken  with  the  storms  of  state, 
Is  come  to  lay  his  weary  bones  among  ye ; 
Give  him  a  little  earth  for  charity  !" 
So  went  to  bed  :  where  eagerly  his  sickness 
Pursu'd  him  still ;  and,  three  nights  after  this. 
About  the  hour  of  eight,  (which  he  himself 
Foretold,  should  be  liis  last,)  full  of  repentance, 
Continual  meditations,  tears,  and  sorrows. 
He  gave  his  honours  to  the  wo. Id  again. 
His  blessed  part  to  heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 

Kath.  So  may  he  rest ;  his  faults  lie  gently  do 
him  I 
Yet  thus  far,  Griffith,  give  me  leave  to  speak  him, 
And  yet  with  charity, — He  was  a  man 
Of  an  unbounded  stomach,  ever  ranking 
Himself  with  princes  ;  one,  that  by  suggestion 
Ty'd  all  the  kingdom  :"  simony  was  fair  play 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE  n. 


His  own  opinion  was  his  law  :  I'  the  presence 
He  would  say  untruths ;  and  be  ever  double, 
Both  in  his  words  and  meaning:  He  was  never, 
But  where  he  meant  to  ruin,  pitiful  ; 
His  promises  were,  as  he  then  was,  mighty ; 
But  his  performance,  as  he  is  now,  nothing. 
Of  his  own  body  he  was  ill,  and  gave 
The  clergy  ill  example. 

Grif.  Noble  madam, 

Men's  evil  manners  live  in  brass  ;  their  virtues 
We  write  in  water.     May  it  please  your  highness 
To  hear  me  speak  his  good  now  ? 

Kath.  Yes.  good  Griffith  : 

I  were  malicious  else. 

Grif.  This  cardinal, 

Though  from  an  humble  stock,  undoubtedly 
Was  fushion'd  to  much  honour  from  his  cradle. 
He  was  a  scholar,  and  a  ripe,  and  good  one ; 
Exceeding  wise,  fair  spoken,  and  persuading: 
Lofty,  and  sour,  to  them  that  lov'd  him  not ; 
But,   to  those   men  that  sought  him,  sweet  as 

summer. 
And  though  he  were  unsatisfied  in  getting, 
C Which  was  a  sin,)  yet  in  bestowing,  madam, 
lie  was  most  princely  :  Ever  witness  for  him 
Those  twins  of  learning,  that  he  rais'd  in  you, 
Ipswich  and  Oxford  !  one  of  which  fell  with  him, 
Unwilling  to  outlive  the  good  that  did  it; 
The  other,  though  unfinish'd,  yet  so  famous, 
So  excellent  in  art,  and  still  so  rising, 
That  Christendom  shall  ever  speak  his  virtue. 
His  overthrow  heap'd  happiness  upon  him  ; 
For  then,  and  not  till  then,  he  felt  himself. 
And  found  the  blessedness  of  being  little: 
And,  to  add  greater  honours  to  his  age 
Than  man  could  give  him,  he  died,  fearing  God. 

Kaih    After  my  death  I  wish  no  other  herald, 
No  other  speaker  of  my  living  actions. 
To  keep  mine  honour  from  corruption. 
But  such  an  honest  chronicler  as  Griffith. 
Whom  I  most  hated  living,  thou  hast  made  me, 
With  thy  religious  truth,  and  modesty. 
Now  in  his  ashes  honour:  Peace  be  with  hira  ! — 
Patience,  be  near  me  still ;  and  set  me  lower : 
I  have  not  long  to  trouble  thee. — Good  Griffith, 
Cause  the  musicians  play  me  that  sad  note 
I  nara'd  my  knell,  whilst  I  sit  meditating 
On  that  celestial  harmony  I  go  to. 

\Sad  and  solemn  music. 

iirif  She   is   asleep  :    Good  wench,   let  's  sit 
down  quiet, 
For  fear  we  wake  her ; — Softly,  gentle  Py-tience. 


The  Vision.  Enter,  solemnly  tripping  one  after 
another,  six  Personages,  clad  in  white  robes^ 
wearing  on  their  herds  garlands  of  hays,  and 
golden  vizards  on  their  faces  ;  branches  of  bays, 
or  palm,  in  their  hands.  They  first  congee  unto 
her,  then  dance ;  and,  at  certain  changes,  the 
first  tivo  hold  a  spare  garland  over  her  head  / 
at  ivhich  the  other  four  make  reverend  courCsies  ; 
then  the  two  that  held  the  garland,  deliver  the 
same  to  the  other  next  two,  who  observe  the  same 
order  in  their  changes,  and  holding  the  garland 
over  her  head :  ivhich  done,  they  deliver  the  same 
garland  to  the  last  two,  v)ho  likewise  observe  the 
same  order:  at  which,  [as  it  were  by  ins2jiration,) 
she  makes  in  her  sleep  signs  of  rejoicing,  and 
holdeth  up  her  hands  to  heaven :  and  so  in 
their  dancing  they  vanish,  carrying  the  garland 
with  them.     The  music  continues. 

Kath.  Spirits  of  peace,  where  are  ye  ?  Are  ye 
all  gone  ? 
And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  behind  ye  ? 
•    Grif.  Madam,  we  are  here. 

Kath.  It  is  not  you  I  call  for : 

Saw  ye  none  enter,  since  I  slept  ? 

Grif.  '        None,  madam. 

Kath.  No  ?  Saw  you  not,  even  now,  a  blessed 
<  troop 

Invite  me  to  a  banquet;  whose  bright  faces 
Cast  thousand  beams  upon  me,  like  the  sun  ? 
They  promis'd  me  eternal  happiness  ; 
And  brought  me  garlands,  Griffith,  which  I  feel 
I  am  not  worthy  yet  to  wear :  I  shall, 
Assuredly. 

Grif.  I  am    most   joyful,   madam,  such   good 
dreams 
Possess  your  fancy. 

Kath.  Bid  the  music  leave, 

They  are  harsh  and  heavy  to  me.     [Music  ceases. 

Pat.  Do  you  note, 

How  much  her  grace  is  alter'd  on  the  sudden  ? 
How  long  her   face   is    drawn  ?    How  pale  she 

looks, 
And  of  an  earthly  coldness  ?    Mark  her  eyes ' 

Grif  She  is  going,  wench  ;  pray,  pray. 

Pat.  Heaven  comfort  her  1 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  An  't  like  your  grace, — 
Kath.  You  are  a  saucy  fellow 

Deserve  we  no  more  reverence  ? 

Grif  You  are  to  blame, 

1086 


Act   IV, 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


8C£n£    II. 


Knowing  she  will  not  lose  her  wonted  greatness, 
To  nse  so  rude  behaviour :  go  to,  kneel. 

Mess.   I   humbly  do   entreat  your   highness' 
pardon ; 
My  haste  made  me  unmannerly  :  There  is  staying 
A.  gentleman,  sent  from  the  king,  to  see  you. 
Kath.  Admit  him  entrance,  Griffith :  But  this 
fellow 
Let  me  ne'er  see  again.  \_Exeunt  Grif.  and  Mess. 

Re-enter  Griffith,  with  Capucius. 

If  my  sight  fail  not. 
You  should  be  lord  ambassador  from  the  emperor, 
My  royal  nephew,  and  your  name  Capucius. 
Cap.  Madam,  the  same,  your  servant. 
Kath.  0  my  lord. 

The  times,  and  titles,  now  are  alter'd  strangely 
I      With  me,  since  first  you  knew  me.     But,  I  pray 

I      What  is  your  pleasure  with  me  ? 
I  Cap.  Noble  lady, 

i      First,  mine  own  service  to  your  grace ;  the  next. 
The  king's  request  that  I  would  visit  you  ;  , 

Who  grieves  much  for  your  weakness,  and  by  me 
Sends  you  his  princely  commendations, 
And  heartily  entreats  you  take  good  comfort. 
Kath.  O  my  good  lord,  that  comfort  comes  too 
late; 
'T  is  like  a  pardon  after  execution  : 
That  gentle  physic,  given  in  time,  had  cur'd  me  ; 
But  now  I  am  past  all  comforts  here,  but  prayers. 
How  does  his  highness  ? 

.-.   Cap.  Madam,  in  good  health. 

Kath.  So  may  he  ever  do !  and  ever  flourish, 

When  I  shall  dwell  with  worms,  and  my  poor 

name 
Banish'd  the  kingdom  ! — Patience,  is  that  letter, 
I  caus'd  you  write,  yet  sent  away  ? 

Pat.  No,  madam.     [^Giving  it  to  Kath. 

Kath.  Sir,  I  most  humbly  pray  you  to  deliver 
This  to  my  lord  the  king. 

Cap.  Most  willing,  madam. 

Kath.   In   which  I   have   commended   to  his 
goodness  ' 

The  model  of  our  chaste  loves,  his  young  daugh- 
ter:— 
The  dews  of  heaven  fall  thick  in  blessings  on  her ! — 
1086 


Beseeching  him,  to  give  her  virtuous  breeding ; 

(She  is  young,  and  of  a  noble  modest  nature ; 

I  hope,  she  will  deserve  well ;)  and  a  little 

To  love  her  for  her  mother's  sake,  that  lov'd  him. 

Heaven  knows  how  dearly.    My  next  poor  petitioij 

Is,  that  his  noble  grace  would  have  some  pity 

Upon  my  wretched  women,  that  so  long, 

Have  folio w'd  both  my  fortunes  faithfully  : 

Of  which  there  is  not  one,  I  dare  avow, 

(And  now  I  should  not  he,)  but  will  deserve 

For  virtue,  and  true  beauty  of  the  soul, 

For  honesty,  and  decent  carriage, 

A  right  good  husband,  let  him  be  a  noble  ; 

And,  sure,  those  men  are  happy  that  snail  have 

them. 
The  last  is,  for  my  men ; — they  are  the  poorest. 
But  poverty  could  never  draw  them  from  me ; — 
That  they  may  have  their  wages  duly  paid  them, 
And  something  over  to  remember  me  by  ; 
If  heaven  had  pleased  to  have  given  me  longer 

life. 
And  able  means,  we  had  not  parted  thus. 
These  are  the  whole  contents: — And,  good  my 

lord, 
By  that  you  love  the  dearest  in  this  world. 
As  you  wish  Christian  peace  to  souls  departed. 
Stand  these  poor  people's  friend,  and   urge  the 

king 
To  do  me  this  last  right. 

Cap.  By  heaven,  I  will ; 

Or  let  me  lose  the  fashion  of  a  man  I 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  honest  lord.   Remember  me 
In  all  humihty  unto  his  highness  : 
Say,  his  long  trouble  now  is  passing 
Out  of  this  world :  tell  him,  in  death  I  bless'd 

him. 
For  so  I  will. — Mine  eyes  grow  dim. — Farewell, 
My  lord. — Griffith,  farewell. — Na}',  Patience, 
You  must  not  leave  me  yet.     I  must  to  bed ; 
Call  in  more  women. — When  I  am  dead,  goo<l 

wench, 
Let  me  be  us'd  with  honour ;  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave :  embalm  me, 
Then  lay  me  forth  :  although  unqueen'd,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more. [Exeunt,  leading  Kath 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Gallery  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Gardiner  Bishop  of  Winchester,  a  Page 
with  a  Torch  before  him,  met  by  Sir  Thomas 

LOVELL. 

Gar.  It 's  one  o'clock,  boy,  is  't  not  ? 

Boy.  It  hath  struck. 

Gar.  These  should  be  hours  for  necessities, 
Not  for  delights ;  times  to  repair  our  nature 
With  comforting  repose,  and  not  for  us 
To  waste  these  times. — Good  hour  of  night,  sir 

Thomas ! 
Whither  so  late  ? 

Lov.  Came  you  from  the  king,  my  lord  ? 

Gar.    I   did,   sir   Thomas;   and   left  him   at 
primero 
With  the  duke  of  Suffolk. 

Lov,  I  must  to  him  too. 

Before  he  go  to  bed.     I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Gar.  Not  yet,  sir  Thomas  Lovell.    What 's  the 
matter? 
It  seems,  you  are  in  haste ;  and  if  there  be 
No  great  offence  belongs  to  't,  give  your  friend 
Some  touch  of  your  late  business  :  Affairs,  that 

walk 
(As,  they  say,  spirits  do,)  at  midnight,  have 
In  them  a  wilder  nature,  than  the  business 
That  seeks  despatch  by  day. 

Lov.  My  lord,  I  love  you  ; 

And  durst  commend  a  secret  to  your  ear 
Much  weightier  than  this  work.     The  queen  's  in 

labour. 
They  say,  in  great  extremity ;  and  fear'd. 
She  '11  with  the  labour  end. 

Gar.  The  fruit,  she  goes  with, 

I  pray  for  heartily  ;  that  it  may  find 
Good  time,  and  live  :  but  for  the  stock,  sir  Thomas, 
T  wish  it  grubb'd  up  now. 

Lov.  Methinks,  I  could 

Cry  the  amen ;  and  yet  my  conscience  says 
She 's  a  good  creature,  and,  sweet  lady,  does 
Deserve  our  better  wishes. 

Gar.  '  But,  sir,  sir, — 

Hear  me,  sir  Thomas  :  You  are  a  gentleman 
Of  mine  own  way ;  I  know  you  wise,  religious  ; 


And,  let  me  tell  you,  it  will  ne'er  be  well, — 
'T  will  not,  sir  Thomas  Lovell,  take  't  of  me. 
Till  Cranraer,  Cromwell,  iter  two  hands,  and  she, 
Sleep  in  their  graves. 

Lov.  Now,  sir,  you  speak  of  two 

The  most  remark'd  i'  the  kingdom.  As  for  Crom- 
well,— 
Beside  that  of  the  jewel-house,  he  's  made  master 
O'  the  rolls,  and  the  king's  secretary  ;  further,  sir, 
Stands  in  the  gap  and  trade  of  more  preferments, 
With  which  the  time  will  load  him  :  The  arch- 
bishop 
Is  the  king's  hand,  and  tongue :  And  who  dare 

speak 
One  syllable  against  him  ? 

Gar.  Yes,  yes,  sir  Thomas, 

There  are  that  dare ;  and  I  myself  have  ventur'd 
To  speak  my  mind  of  him :  and,  indeed,  this  day, 
Sir,  (I  may  tell  it  you,)  I  think,  I  have 
Incens'd  the  lords  o'  the  council,  that  he  is 
(For  so  I  know  he  is,  they  know  he  is,) 
A  most  arch  heretic,  a  pestilence 
That  does  infect  the  land :  with  which  they  moved, 
Have  broken  with  the  king ;  who  hath  so  far 
Given  ear  to  our  complaint,  (of  his  great  grace 
And  princely  care ;  foreseeing  those  fell  mischieft 
Our  reasons  laid  before  him,)  he  hath  commanded. 
To-morrow  morning  to  the  council-board 
He  be  convented.     He 's  a  rank  weed,  sir  Thomas, 
And  we  must  root  him  out.     From  your  affairs 
I  hinder  you  too  long :  good  night,  sir  Thomas. 
Lov.  Many  good  nights,  my  lord  ;  I  rest  your 
servant.  [Exeunt  Gar.  and  Page. 

As  Lovell  is  going  out,  enter  the  King,  arid  the 
Duke  of  Suffolk. 

K.  Hen.  Charles,  I  will  play  no  more  to-night ; 
My  mind  's  not  on 't,  you  are  too  hard  for  me. 

Suf.  Sir,  I  never  did  win  of  you  before. 

IC.  Hen.  But  little,  Charles ; 
Nor  shall  not,  when  my  fancy's  on  my  play. — 
Now,  Lovell,  from  the  queen  what  is  the  news  ? 

Lov.  I  could  not  personally  deliver  to  her 
What  you  commanded  me,  but  by  her  wojuan 
I  sent  your  message ;  who  return'd  her  thanks 

1087 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCEKS   L 


[n  t)ie  greatest  humbleness,  and  desir'd  your  high- 
ness 
Most  heartily  to  pray  for  her. 

K.  Hen.  What  say'st  thou  ?  ha  ! 

T.I  pray  for  her?  what,  is  she  crying  out? 

Lov.  So  saii  her  woman  ;  and  that  her  suffer- 
ance made 
Almost  each  pang  a  death. 

K.  Hen.  Alas,  good  lady  ! 

iSuf.  God  safely  quit  her  of  her  burden,  and 
With  gentle  travail,  to  the  gladding  of 
Your  highness  with  an  heir  1 

K.  Hen.  ■  'T  is  midnight,  Charles, 

Pr'ythee,  to  bed ;  and  in  thy  prayers  remember 
The  estate  of  my  poor  queen.     Leave  me  alone ; 
For  I  must  think  of  that,  which  company 
Will  not  be  friendly  to. 

Suf.  I  wish  your  highness 

A  quiet  night,  and  my  good  mistress  will 
Remember  in  my  prayers. 

H.  Hen.         Charles,  good  night. —  \_Exit  Suf. 

Enter  Sir  Anthony  Denny. 
Well,  sir,  what  follows? 

Deih.  Sir,  I  have  brought  my  lord  the  arch- 
bishop, 
.1.^  you  commanded  rae. 
K.  Hen.    .  Ha  1  Canterbury  ? 

Hen.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
K.  Hen  'T  is  true :  Where  is  he,  Denny  ? 

Den.  He  attends  your  highness'  pleasure. 
H.  Hen.  Bring  him  to  us.     [Exit  Den. 

,  Lov.   This   is   about   that   which   the   bishop 

spake ; 
I  am  happily  come  hither.  \_Aside. 

He-enter  Denny,  with  Ckanmer. 

K.  Hen.  Avoid  the  gallery. 

[Lov.  seems  to  stay. 
Ha  1 — I  have  said. — Be  gone. 
What ! —  [Exeunt  Lov.  and  Den. 

Cran.    I  am  fearful : — Wherefore   frowns   he 
thus? 
'T  is  his  aspect  of  terror.     All 's  not  well. 

K.  Hen.  How  now,  my  lord  ?     You  do  desire 
to  know 
Wherefore  I  sent  for  you. 

Cran.  It  is  my  duty. 

To  attend  your  highness'  pleasure. 

-^'  -Se«.  'Pray  you,  arise, 

My  good  and  gracious  lord  of  Canterbury. 
Come,  you  and  I  must  walk  a  turn  together ; 
1088 


I  have  news  to  tell  you  :  Come,  come,  give  me 

your  hand. 
Ah,  my  good  lord,  I  grieve  at  what  I  speak, 
And  am  right  sorry  to  repeat  what  follows: 
I  have,  and  most  unwillingly,  of  late 
Heard  many  grievous,  I  do  say,  my  lord, 
Grievous  complaints  of  you ;  which,  being  con- 

sider'd. 
Have  mov'd  us  and  our  council,  that  you  shall 
This  morning  come  before  us;  where,  I  know, 
You  cannot  with  such  freedom  purge  yourself, 
But  that,  till  further  trial,  in  those  charges 
Which  will  require  your  answer,  you  must  take 
Your  patience  to  you,  and  be  well  contented 
To  make  your  house  our  Tower  :  You  a  brother 

of  us, 
It  fits  we  thus  proceed,  or  else  no  witness 
Would  come  against  you. 

Cran.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness; 

And  am  right  glad  to  catch  this  good  occasion 
Most  throughly  to  be  winnow'd,  where  my  chaflf 
And  corn  shall  fly  asunder :  for,  I  know, 
There  's    none    stands    under    more    calumnious 

tongues, 
Thari  I  myself,  poor  man. 

H.  Hen.  Stand  up,  good  Canterbury 

Thy  truth,  and  thy  integrity,  is  rooted 
In  us,  thy  friend  :  Give  me  thy  hand,  stand  up ; 
Pr'ythee,  let 's  walk.     Now,  by  my  holy-dame. 
What  manner  of  man  are  you  f    My  lord,  I  look'd 
You  would  have  given  rae  your  petition,  that 
I  should  have  ta'en  some  pains  to  bring  together 
Yourself  and  your  accusers  ;  and  to  have  heard 

you 
Without  indurance,  further. 

Cran.  Most  dread  liege, 

The  good  I  stand  on  is  my  truth,  and  honesty ; 
If  they  shall  fail,  I,  with  mine  enemies. 
Will  triumph  o'er  my  person  ;  which  I  weigh  notj 
Being  of  those  virtues  vacant.     I  fear  nothing 
What  can  be  said  against  me. 

K.  Hen.  Know  you  not  how 

Your  state  stands  i'  the  world,  with   the  whole 

world  ? 
Your  enemies 

Are  many,  and  not  small ;  their  practices 
Must  bear  the  same  proportion ;  and  not  ever 
The  justice  and  the  truth  o'  the  question  carries 
The  due  o'  the  verdict  with  it :  At  what  ease 
Might  corrupt  minds  procure  knaves  as  corrupt 
To  swear  against  you  ?  such  things  have  been  done 
You  are  j)oteutly  oppos'd ;  and  with  a  malice 


ACT    V. 


KING  HEXRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENii;    II. 


Of  as  great  size.     "Ween  you  of  better  luck, 
I  mean,  in  perjur'd  witness,  than  your  Master, 
Whose  minister  you  are,  whiles  here  he  liv'd 
Upon  this  naughty  earth  ?     Go  to,  go  to ; 
You  take  a  precipice  for  no  leap  of  danger. 
And  woo  your  own  destruction. 

Cran.  God,  and  your  majesty, 

Protect  mine  innocence,  or  I  fall  into 
The  trap  is  laid  for  me ! 

K.  Hen.  Be  of  good  cheer ; 

They  shall  no  more  prevail,  than  we  give  way  to. 
Keep  comfort  to  you  ;  and  this  morning  see 
You  do  appear  before  them  ;  if  they  shall  chance, 
In  charging  you  with  matters,  to  commit  you, 
The  best  persuasions  to  the  contrary 
Fail  not  to  use,  and  with  what  vehemency 
The  occasion  shall  instruct  you  :  if  entreaties 
Will  render  you  no  remedy,  this  ring 
Deliver  them,  and  your  appeal  to  us 
There  make  before  them. — Look,  the  good  man 


weeps 


He 's  honest,  on  mine  honour.     God's  blest  mother ! 
I  swear,  he  is  true-hearted ;  and  a  soul 
None  better  in  my  kingdom. — Get  you  gone, 
And   ^o  as  I  have  bid  you. — \IJxit  Cran.]     He 

has  strangled 
His  language  in  his  tears. 

Enter  an  old  Lady. 

Gent.  [  Within.']  Come  back :  What  mean  you  ? 

■Lady.  I  '11  not  come  back  ;  the  tidings  that  I 
bring 
Will  make  my  boldness  manners. — Now,  good 

angels 
Fly  o'er  thy  royal  head,  and  shade  thy  person 
Under  their  blessed  wingo  ! 

K.  Hen.  Now,  by  thy  looks 

I  guess  thy  message.     Is  the  queen  deliver'd  ? 
Say,  ay ;  and  of  a  boy. 

Lady.  Ay,  ay,  ray  liege ; 

And  of  a  lovely  boy :  The  God  of  heaven 
Both  now  and  ever  bless  her ! — 't  is  a  girl,. 
Promises  boys  hereafter.     Sir,  your  queen 
Desires  your  visitation,  and  to  be 
Acquainted  with  this  stranger ;  't  is  as  like  you, 
As  cherry  is  to  cherry. 

A".  Hen.  Lovell, — 

Enter  Lovell. 

Lovi  Sir. 

K.  Ben.  Give  her  an  hundred  marks.     I  '11  to 
the  queen.  [Exit  King. 

137 


Lady.  An  hundred  marks  !     By  this  light,  I'U 
have  more. 
An  ordinary  groom  is  for  such  payment. 
I  will  have  more,  or  scold  it  out  of  him. 
Said  I  for  this,  the  girl  is  like  to  him  ? 
I  will  have  more,  or  else  unsay  't ;  and  now 
While  it  is  hot,  I  '11  put  it  to  the  issue.    [Exeunt'. 

SCENE  II. — Lobby  before  the  Council- Chamber. 

Enter  Cranmee  ;    Servants,  Door-Keeper,  c&c, 
attending. 

Cran.  I  hope,  I  am  not  too  late ;  and  yet  the 
gentleman. 
That  was  sent  to  me  from  the  council,  pray'd  me 
To   make   great   haste.     All   fast  ?  what   means 

this  ? — Hoa ! 
Who  waits  there  ? — Sure,  you  know  me  ? 

D.  Keep.  Yes,  my  lord ; 

But  yet  I  cannot  help  you. 

Cran.  Why? 

i>.  Keep.  Your  grace  must  wait,  till  you  be 
call'd  for. 

Enter  Doctor  Butts. 

Cran.  So 

Butts.  This  is  a  piece  of  malice.     I  am  glad , 
I  came  this  way  so  happily  :  The  king 
Shall  understand  it  presently.  [Exit  Butts. 

Cran.  [Aside.]  'T  is  Butts, 

The  king's  physician  :  As  he  pass'd  along. 
How  earnestly  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  me ! 
Pray  heaven,  he  found  not  my  disgrace !  For  cer- 
tain, 
This  is  of  purpose  lay'd,  by  some  that  hate  me, 
(God  turn  their  hearts !  I  never  sought  their  mal- 
ice,) 
To  quench  mine  honour :  they  would  shame  to 

make  me 
Wait  else  at  door ;  a  fellow  counsellor, 
Among  boys,  grooms,  and  lacqueys.     But  their 

pleasures 
Must  be  fulfill'd,  and  I  attend  with  patience. 

Enter,  at  a  window  ahove^  the  Kino  and  Burra. 

Butts.  I  '11  show  your  grace    the  strangest 

sight, — 
K.  Hen.  What 's  that,  Butto  ? 

Butts.  I  think,  your  highness  saw  this  many  a 

day. 
K.  Jffen.  Body  o'  me,  where  is  it  ? 
Butts.  There,  my  lord : 

1089 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH 


SCENE    i. 


The  high  promotion  of  his  grace  of  Canterbury  ; 
Who  holds  Iiis  state  at  door,  'mongst  pursuivants, 
Pages,  and  footboys. 

K.  Hen.  Ha !  'T  is  he,  indeed : 

fs  this  the  honour  they  do  one  another  ? 
'T  is  well,  there  's  one  above  them  yet.     I  had 

thought. 
They  had  parted  so  much  honesty  among  them, 
(At  least,  good  manners,)  as  not  thus  to  suffer 
A  man  of  his  place,  and  so  near  our  favour. 
To  dance  attendance  on  their  lordships'  pleasures. 
And  at  the  door  too,  like  a  post  with  packets. 
By  .holy  Mary,  Butts,  there  's  knavery  : 
Let  them  alone,  and  draw  the  curtain  close ; 
We  shall  hear  more  anon. —  \Exeunt. 

THE  COUNCIL-CHAMBER. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  Duke  of  Suf- 
folk, Earl  of  Surrey,  Lord  Chamberlain, 
Gardiner,  and  Cromwell.  The  Chancellor 
places  himself  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  on 
tlie  left  hand  ;  a  seat  being  left  void  above  him, 
asfor  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  The  rest 
seat  themselves  in  order  on  each  side.  Crom- 
well at  the  lower  end,  as  Secretary. 

Chan.  Speak  to  the  business,  master  secretary : 
Why  are  we  met  in  council  ? 

Crom.  Please  your  honours. 

The  chief  cause  concerns  his  grace  of  Canterbury. 
Gar.  Has  he  had  knowledge  of  it  ? 
Crom.  Yes. 

Nor.  Who  waits  there  ? 

D.  Keep.  Without,  my  noble  lords  ? 
Oar.  Yes. 

D.  Keep.  My  lord  archbishop ; 

And  has  done  half  an  hour,  to  know  your  pleas- 
ures. 
Chan.  Let  him  come  in. 

D.  Keep.  Your  grace  may  enter  now. 

[Cranmer  approaches  the  Council-table. 
Cluin.  My  good   lord   archbishop,  I  am    very 
sorry 
To  sit  here  at  this  present,  and  behold 
That  chair  stand  empty  :  But  we  all  are  men, 
In  our  natures  frail ;  and  capable 
Of  our  flesh,  few  are  angels:'*  out  of  which  frailty. 
And  want  of  wisdom,  you,  that  best  should  teach 

us. 
Have  misdemean'd  yourself,  and  not  a  little, 
Toward  the  king  first,  then  his  laws,  in  filling 
The  whole   realm,  by  your  teaching,  and  your 
chaplains, 
1090 


(For  so  we  are  inform'd,)  with  new  opinions. 
Divers,  and  dangerous ;  which  are  heresies, 
And,  not  reform'd,  may  prove  pernicious. 

Gar.  Which  reformation  must  be  sudden  too, 
My  noble  lords  :  for  those,  that  tame  wild  horses, 
Pace  them  not  in  their  hands  to  make  them  gen- 
tle; 
But  stop   their  mouths  with  stubborn  bits,   and 

spur  them. 
Till  they  obey  the  manage.     If  we  suffer 
(Out  of  our  easiness,  and  childish  pity 
To  one  man's  honour)  this  contagious  sickness. 
Farewell  all  physic :  And  what  follows  then  ? 
Commotions,  uproars,  with  a  general  taint 
Of  the  whole  state :  as,  of  late  days,  our  neigh- 
bours, 
The  upper  Germany,  can  dearly  witness. 
Yet  freshly  pitied  in  our  memories. 

Cran.  My  good  lords,  hitherto,  in  all  the  pro- 
gress 
Both  of  my  life  and  office,  I  have  labour'd, 
And  with  no  little  study,  that  my  teaching. 
And  the  strong  course  of  my  authi)rity. 
Might  go  one  way,  and  safely  ;  and  the  end 
Was  ever,  to  do  well :  nor  is  there  living 
(I  speak  it  with  a  single  heart,  my  lords,) 
A  man,  that  more  detests,  more  stirs  against, 
Both  in  his  private  conscience,  and  his  place, 
Defacers  of  a  public  peace,  than  I  do. 
'Pray  heaven,  the  king  may  never  find  a  heart 
With  less  allegiance  in  it !     Men,  that  make 
Envy,  and  crooked  malice,  nourishment, 
Dare  bite  the  best.     I  do  beseech  your  lordships, 
That,  in  this  case  of  justice,  my  accusers, 
Be  what  they  will,  may  stand  forth  face  to  face, 
And  freely  urge  against  me. 

Suf.  Nay,  my  lord. 

That  cannot  be  ;  you  are  a  counsellor, 
And,  by  that  virtue,  no  man  dare  accuse  you. 

Gar.  My  lord,   because  we   have  business    of 
more  moment. 
We  will  be  short  with  you,     'T  is  his  highness' 

pleasure, 
And  our  consent,  for  better  trial  of  you. 
From  hence  you  be  committed  to  the  Tower ; 
Where,  being  but  a  private  man  again. 
You  shall  know  many  dare  accuse  you  boldly. 
More  than,  I  fear,  you  are  provided  for. 

Cran.  Ah,  my  good  lord 'of  Winchester,  I  thank 
you. 
You  are  always  my  good  friend;  if  your  wiil  pj,o3, 
I  shall  both  find  your  lordship  judge  and  juror, 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SOENS  n. 


You  are  so  merciful :  I  see  your  end, 
'T  is  my  undoing  :  Love,  and  meekness,  lord, 
Become  a  churchman  better  than  ambition; 
Win  straying  souls  with  modesty  again, 
Cast  none  away.     That  I  shall  clear  myself, 
Lay  all  the  weight  ye  can  upon  my  patience, 
I  make  as  little  doubt,  as  you  do  conscience. 
In  doing  daily  wrongs.     I  could  say  more. 
But  reverence  to  your  calling  makes  me  modest. 

Gar.  My  lord,  my  lord,  you  are  a  sectary, 
That  's  the  plain  truth  ;  your  painted  gloss  dis- 
covers. 
To  men  that  understand  you,  words,  and  weakness. 

Crom.  My  lord  of  Winchester,  you  are  a  little, 
By  your  good  favour,  too  sharp  ;  men  so  noble. 
However  faulty,  yet  should  find  respect 
For  what  they  have  been  :  't  is  a  cruelty, 
To  load  a  falling  man. 

Qar.  Good  master  secretary, 

I  cry  your  honour  mercy ;  you  may,  worst 
Of  all  this  table,  say  so. 

Crom.  Why,  my  lord  ? 

Oar.  Do  not  I  know  you  for  a  favourer 
Of  this  new  sect  ?  ye  are  not  sound. 

Crom.  Not  sound  ? 

Gar.  Not  sound,  I  say. 

Crom.  'Would  you  were  half  so  honest ! 

Men's  prayers  then  would  seek  you,  not  their  fears. 

Gar.  I  shall  remember  this  bold  language. 

Crom.  Do. 

Remember  your  bold  life  too. 

Chan.  This  is  too  much  ; 

Forbear,  for  shame,  my  lords. 

Gar.  I  have  done. 

Crom.  And  I. 

Chan.  Then  thus  for  you,  my  lord, — It  stands 
agreed, 
I  take  it,  by  all  voices,  that  forthwith 
You  be  convey'd  to  the  Tower  a  prisoner ; 
There  to  remain,  till  the  king's  further  pleasure 
Be  known  unto  us  :  Are  you  all  agreed,  lords  ? 

All.  We  are. 

Cran.  Is  there  no  other  way  of  mercy. 

But  I  must  needs  to  the  Tower,  my  lords  ? 

Gar.  What  other 

Would  you  expect?    You  are  strangely  trouble- 
some. 
Let  some  o'  the  guard  be  ready  there. 

Enter  Guard. 
Cran.  For  me  ? 

Must  I  go  like  a  traitor  thither  ? 


Gar.  Receive  him. 

And  see  him  safe  i'  the  Tower. 

Cran.  Stay,  good  my  lords, 

1  have  a  little  yet  to  say.     Look  there,  ray  lords ; 
By  virtue  of  that  ring,  I  take  my  cause 
Out  of  the  gripes  of  cruel  men,  and  giv(,  it 
To  a  most  noble  judge,  the  king  my  master. 

Cham.  This  is  the  king's  ring. 

Sur.  'T  is  no  counterfeit. 

Suf.  'T  is  the  right  ring,  by  heaven  :  I  told  ye 
all, 
When  we  first  put  this  dangerous  stone  a  rolling, 
'T  would  fall  upon  ourselves. 

Nor.  Do  you  think,  my  lords 

The  king  will  suffer  but  the  little  finger 
Of  this  man  to  be  vex'd  ? 

Cham.  'T  is  now  too  certain  : 

How  much  more  is  his  life  in  value  with  him  ? 
'Would  I  were  fairly  out  on  't. 

Cro7n.  My  mind  gave  me, 

In  seeking  tales,  and  informations, 
Against  this  man,  (whose  honesty  the  devil 
And  his  disciples  only  envy  at,) 
Ye  blew  the  fire  that  burns  ye  :  Now  have  at  ye. 

Enter  King,  frowning  on  them  ;  takes  his  seat. 

Gar.  Dread  sovereign,  how  much  are  we  bound 
to  heaven, 
In  daily  thanks,  that  gave  us  such  a  prince ; 
Not  only  good  and  wise,  but  most  religious : 
One  that,  in  all  obedience,  makes  the  church 
The  chief  aim  of  his  honour  ;  and,  to  strengthen 
That  holy  duty,  out  of  dear  respect, 
His  royal  self  in  judgment  comes  to  hear 
The  cause  betwixt  her  and  this  great  offender. 

IT.  Hen.  You  were  ever  good  at  sudden  com 
mendations, 
Bishop  of  Winchester.     But  know,  I  come  not 
To  hear  such  flattery  now,  and  in  my  presence ; 
They  are  too  thin  and  bare  to  hide  offences. 
To  me  you  cannot  reach,  you  play  the  spaniel, 
And  think  with  wagging  of  your  tongue  to  win 

me; 
But,  whatsoe'er  thou  tak'st  me  for,  I  am  sure, 
Thou  hast  a  cruel  nature,  and  a  bloody. — 
Good  man,  [To  Cran.]  sit  down.     Now  let  me 

see  the  proudest 
He,  that  dares  most,  but  wag  his  finger  at  thee : 
By  all  that 's  holy,  he  had  better  starve, 
Than  but  once  think  this  place  becomes  thee  not 

Sur,  May  it  please  your  grace, 

K.  Hen.  No,  sir,  it  does  not  please  mo, 

1U91 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENKV  TIIK  ttunrrH. 


SCENE  rn. 


I  had  thought  I  had  had  men  of  some  under- 
standing 
And  wisdom,  of  my  council ;  but  I  find  none. 
Was  it  discretion,  lords,  to  let  this  man, 
This  good  man,  (few  of  you  deserve  that  title,) 
This  honest  man,  wait  like  a  lousy  footboy 
At  chamber  door  ?  and  one  as  great  as  you  are  ? 
Why,  what  a  shame  was  this  !     Did    my  com- 
mission 
Bid  ye  so  far  forget  yourselves  ?     I  gave  ye 
Power  as  he  was  a  counsellor  to  try  him, 
Not  as  a  groom  :  There  's  some  of  ye,  I  see. 
More  out  of  malice  than  integrity, 
Would  try  him  to  the  utmost,  had  ye  mean ; 
Which  ye  shall  never  have,  while  I  live. 

Chan.  Thus  far, 

My  most  dread  sovereign,  may  it  like  your  grace 
To  let  my  tongue  excuse  all.    What  was  purpos'd 
Concerning  his  imprisonment,  was  rather 
(If  there  be  faith  in  men,)  meant  for  his  trial. 
And  fair  purgation  to  the  world,  than  malice ; 
I  am  sure,  in  me. 

K.  Ken.         Well,  well,  my  lords,  respect  him ; 
Take  him,  and  use  him  well,  he  's  worthy  of  it. 
I  will  say  thus  much  for  him.  If  a  prince 
May  be  beholden  to  a  subject,  I 
Am,  for  his  love  and  service,  so  to  him. 
Make  me  no  more  ado,  but  all  embrace  him ; 
Be  friends,  for  shame,  my  lords. — My  lord  of  Can- 
terbury, 
I  have  a  suit  which  you  must  not  deny  me ; 
That  is,  a  fair  young  maid  that  yet  wants  baptism, 
You  must  be  godfather,  and  answer  for  her. 

Cran.  The  greatest  monarch  now  alive  may  glory 
In  such  an  honour :  How  may  I  deserve  it. 
That  am  a  poor  and  humble  subject  to  you  ? 
K.  Hen.  Come,  come,   my  lord,  you'd  spare 
your  spoons ',"  you  shall  have 
Two  noble  partners  with  you ;  the  old  duchess  of 

Norfolk, 
And  lady  marquis  Dorset :  Will  these  please  you  ? 
Once  more,  my  lord  of  Winchester,  I  charge  you, 
Embrace,  and  love  this  man. 

Gar.  With  a  true  heart, 

And  brother-love,  I  do  it. 

Cran.  And  let  heaven 

Witness,  how  dear  I  hold  this  confirmation. 
IC.  Hen.  Good  man,  those  joyful  tears  show  thy 
true  heart. 
The  common  voice,  I  see,  is  verified 
Of  thee,  which  says  thus,  "  Do  ray  lord  of  Can- 
terbury 
1092 


A  shrewd  turn,  and  he  is  your  friend  for  ever." — 
Come,  lords,  we  trifle  time  away  ;  I  long 
To  have  this  young  one  made  a  christian. 
As  I  have  made  ye  one,  lords,  one  remain ; 
So  I  grow  stronger,  you  more  honour  gain. 

[^Bxeunt. 

SCENEIII.— The  Palace  Yard. 

Noise  and  Tumult  within.     Enter  Porter  and  his 
Man. 

Port.  You  '11  leave  your  noise  anon,  ye  rascals  : 
Do  you  take  the  court  for  Paris-garden  ?*  ye  rude 
slaves,  leave  your  gaping. 

[  Within.^  Good  master  porter,  I  belong  to  the 
larder. 

Port.  Belong  to  the  gallows,  and  be  hanged, 
you  rogue  :  Is  this  a  place  to  roar  in  ? — Fetch  me 
a  dozen  crab-tree  staves,  and  strong  ones ;  these 
are  but  switches  to  them.  —  I  '11  scratch  your 
heads :  You  must  be  seeing  christenijigs  ?  Do 
you  look  for  ale  and  cakes  here,  you  rude  rascals  ? 

Man.  Pray,  sir,  be  patient ;  't  is  as  much  im- 
possible 
(Unless  we  sweep  them  from  the  door  with  can- 
nons,) 
To  scatter  them,  as  't  is  to  make  them  sleep 
On  May-day  morning ;  which  will  never  be : 
We  may  as  well  push  against  Paul's,  as  stir  them. 

Port.  How  got  they  in,  and  be  hang'd  ? 

Man.  Alas,  I  know  not :   How  gets  the  tide 
in? 
As  much  as  one  sound  cudgel  of  four  foot 
(You  see  the  poor  remainder)  could  distribute, 
I  made  no  spare,  sir. 

Port.  You  did  nothing,  sir. 

Man.  1  am  not  Sampson,  nor  sir  Guy,  nor  Col- 
brand,  to  mow  them  down  before  me :  but,  if  I 
spared  any,  that  had  a  head  to  hit,  either  young 
or  old,  he  or  she,  cuqkold  or  cuckold-maker,  let  me 
never  hope  to  see  a  queen  again  ;  and  that  I  would 
not  for  a  crown,  God  save  her. 

[  Within.]  Do  you  hear,  master  Porter  ? 

Port.  I  shall  be  with  you  presently,  good  mas- 
ter puppy. — Keep  the  door  close,  sirrah. 

Man.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ? 

Port.  What  should  you  do,  but  knock  them 
down  by  the  dozens?  Is  this  Moorfields  to  muster 
in  ?  or  have  we  some  strange  Indian  with  the 
great  tool  come  to  court,  the  women  so  besiege 
us  ?  Bless  me,  what  a  fry  of  fornication  is  at 
door !     On  my  christian  conscience,  this  one.  chris- 


ACT   V. 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCBNB   IT. 


tening  will  beget  a  thousand ;  here  will  be  father, 
godfather,  and  all  together, 

Man,  The  spoons  will  be  the  bigger,  sir.  There 
is  a  fellow  somewhat  near  the  door,  he  should  be 
a  brazier  by  his  face,  for,  o'  my  conscience,  twenty 
ot  the  dog  days  now  reign  in 's  nose;  all  that 
stand  about  him  are  under  the  line,  they  need  no 
other  penance :  That  fire-drake^^  did  I  hit  three 
times  on  the  head,  and  three  times  was  his  nose 
discharged  against  me ;  he  stands  there,  like  a 
mortar  piece,  to  blow  us.  There  was  a  haber- 
dasher's wife  of  small  wit  near  him,  that  railed 
upon  me  till  her  pink'd  porringer  fell  off"  her  tiead, 
for  kindling  such  a  combustion  in  the  state.  I 
miss'd  the  meteor  once,  and  hit  that  woman,  who 
cried  out,  "  clubs !"  when  I  might  see  from  far 
some  forty  truncheoneers  draw  to  her  succour, 
which  were  the  hope  of  the  Strand,  where  she  was 
quartered.  They  fell  on  ;  I  made  good  my  place ; 
at  length  they  came  to  the  broomstaff"  with  me,  I 
defied  them  still ;  when  suddenly  a  file  of  boys 
behind  them,  loose  shot,  delivered  such  a  shower 
of  pebbles,  that  I  was  fain  to  draw  mine  honour 
in,  and  let  them  win  the  work :  The  devil  was 
amongst  them,  I  think,  surely. 

Port.  These  are  the  youths  that  thunder  at  a 
play-house,  and  fight  for  bitten  apples  ;  that  no 
audience,  but  the  Tribulation  of  Tower-hill,  or  the 
limbs  of  Limehouse,  their  dear  brothers,  are  able 
to  endure.  I  have  some  of  them  in  Limbo  Patrum, 
and  there  they  are  like  to  dance  these  three  days; 
besides  the  running  banquet  of  two  beadles,  that 
is  to  come. 

Enter  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

Cham.  Mercy  o'  me,  what  a  multitude  are  here ! 
They  grow  still  to,  from  all  parts  they  are  coming. 
As  if  we  kept  a  fair  here !     Where  are  these 

porters. 
These  lazy  knaves  ? — Ye  have  made  a  fine  hand, 

fellows. 
There 's  a  trim  rabble  let  in  :  Are  all  these 
Your  faithful  friends  o'  the  suburbs  ?     We  shall 

have 
Great  store  of  room,  no  doubt,  left  for  the  ladies, 
When  they  pass  back  from  the  christening. 

Port.  An  't  please  your  honour 

We  are  but  men  ;  and  what  so  many  may  do, 
Not  being  torn  a  pieces,  we  have  done : 
An  army  cannot  rule  them. 

Cliam.  As  I  live, 

If  the  king  blame  me  for 't,  I  '11  lay  ye  all 


By  the  heels,  and  suddenly ;  and  on  your  heads 
Clap   round   fines,    for   neglect :    You    are    lazy 

knaves ; 
And  here  ye  lie  baiting  of  bumbards,  when 
Ye  should  do  service.     Hark,  the  trumpets  sound 
They  are  come  already  from  the  christening : 
Go,  break  among  the  press,  and  find  a  way  out 
To  let  the  troop  pass  fairly ;  or  I  '11  find 
A  Marshalsea,  shall   hold   you    play  these   two 
months. 

Port.  Make  way  there  for  the  princess. 

Man.  You  great  fellow,  stand  close  up,  or  1  '11 
make  your  head  ache. 

Port.  You  i'  the  camblet,  get  up  o'  the  rail ;  I  '11 
pick  you  o'er  the  pales  else.  \Exeunt 

SCENE  lY.—The  Palace. 

Enter  Trumpets,  sounding ;  then  two  Aldermen, 
Lord  Mayor,  Garter,  Cranmer,  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk, with  his  Marshal's  Staff,  Duke  of  Suf- 
folk, two  Noblemen  bearing  great  standing- 
boiols  for  the  christening  gifts ;  then  four 
Noblemen  bearing  a  canopy,  under  which  the 
Duchess  of  Norfolk,  Godmother,  bearing  the 
Child  richly  habited  in  a  mantle,  c&c.  Train 
borne  by  a  Lady  :  then  follow  the  Marchionkss 
OP  Dorset,  the  other  Godmother,  and  Ladies. 
The  Troop  pass  once  about  the  stage,  and 
Garter  speaks. 

Gart.  Heaven,  from  thy  endless  goodness,  send 
prosperous  life,  long,  and  ever  happy,  to  the  high 
and  mighty  princess  of  England,  Elizabeth  ! 

Flourish. — Enter  King,  and  Train. 

Cran.  [^Kneeling.]  And   to  your  royal  grace, 
and  the  good  queen. 
My  noble  partners,  and  myself,  thus  pray  : — 
All  comfort,  joy,  in  this  most  gracious  lady, 
Heaven  ever  laid  Up  to  make  parents  happy. 
May  hourly  fall  upon  ye  I 

K.  Men.  Thank  you,  good  lord  archbishop ; 
What  is  her  name  ? 

Cran.  Elizabeth. 

K.  Sen.  Stand  up,  lord. — 

[The  Kino  kisses  the  Child. 
With  this  kiss  take  my  blessing :  God  protect 

thee! 
Into  whose  hands  I  give  thy  life. 

Cran.  Amen. 

K.  Hen.  My  noble  gossips,  ye  have  been  too 
prodigal : 

109S 


KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


SCENE   in. 


I  thank  ye  heartily ;  so  shall  this  lady, 
When  she  has  so  much  Enghsh. 

Cran.  Let  me  speak,  sir, 

For  heaven  now  bids  me ;  and  the  words  I  utter 
Let  none  think   flattery,  for  they  '11  find  them 

truth. 
This  royal  infant,  (heaven  still  move  about  her !) 
Though  in  her  cradle,  yet  now  promises 
Upon  this  land  a  thousand  thousand  blessings. 
Which  time  shall  bring  to  ripeness :  She  shall  be 
(But  few  now  living  can  behold  that  goodness,) 
A  pattern  to  all  princes  living  with  her, 
And  all  that  shall  succeed :  Sheba  was  never 
More  covetous  of  wisdom,  and  fair  virtue, 
Than  this  pure  soul  shall  be :  all  princely  graces. 
That  mould  up  such' a  mighty  piece  as  this  is, 
With  all  the  virtues  that  attend  the  good. 
Shall  still  be  doubled  on  her  :  truth  shall  nurse  her. 
Holy  and  heavenly  thoughts  still  counsel  her : 
She  shall  be  lov'd,  and  fear'd :  Her  own  shall 

bless  her : 
Her  foes  shake  like  a  field  of  beaten  corn, 
And  hang  their  heads  with  sorrow :  Good  grows 

with  her : 
In  her  days,  every  man  shall  eat  in  safety 
Under  his  own  vine,  what  he  plants  ;  and  sing 
The  merry  songs  of  peace  to  all  his  neighbours : 
God  shall  be  truly  known  ;  and  those  about  her 
From  her  shall  read  the  perfect  ways  of  honour, 
And  by  those  claim  their  greatness,  not  by  blood. 
Nor  shall  this  peace  sleep  with  her:  But  as  when 
The  bird  of  wonder  dies,  the  maiden  phoenix. 
Her  ashes  new  create  another  heir, 
As  great  in  admiration  as  herself; 
So  shall  she  leave  her  blessedness  to  one, 
(When  heaven  shall  call  her  from  this  cloud  of 

darkness,) 


Who,  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  her  honour. 
Shall  star-like  rise,  as  great  in  fame  as  she  was, 
And  so  stand  fix'd :  Peace,  plenty,  love,  truth, 

terror. 
That  were  the  servants  to  this  chosen  infant, 
Shall  then  be  his,  and  like  a  vine  grow  to  him  ; 
Wherever  the  bright  sun  of  heaven  shall  shine. 
His  honour  and  the  greatness  of  his  name 
Shall  be,  and  make  new  nations :  He  shall  flourish 
And,  like  a  mountain  cedar,  reach  his  branches 
To  all  the  plains  about  him  : — Our  children's 

children 
Shall  see  this,  and  bless  heaven. 

K.  Hen.  Thou  speakest  wonders. 

Cran.  She  shall  be,  to  the  happiness  of  England, 
An  aged  princess ;  many  days  shall  see  her, 
And  yet  no  day  without  a  deed  to  crown  it. 
'Would  I  had  known  no  more  1  but  she  must  die, 
(She  must,  the  saints  must  have  her ;)  yet  a  virgin, 
A  most  unspotted  lily  shall  she  pass 
To  the  ground,  and  all  the  world  shall  mourn  her. 

K.  Hen.  0  lord  archbishop, 
Thou  hast  made  me  now  a  man ;  never,  before 
This  happy  child,  did  I  get  any  thing : 
This  oracle  of  comfort  has  so  pleas'd  me, 
That,  when  I  am  in  heaven,  I  shall  desire 
To    see  what   this    child    does,  and    praise    my 

Maker, — 
I  thank  ye  all, — To  you,  my  good  lord  mayor, 
And  your  good  brethren,  I  am  much  beholden ; 
I  have  receiv'd  much  honour  by  your  presence, 
And  ye  shall  find  me  thankful.     Lead  the  way, 

lords ; — 
Ye  must  all  see  the  queen,  and  she  must  thank  ye, 
She  will  be  sick  else.     This  day,  no  man  think 
He  has  business  at  his  house;  for  all  shall  stay, 
This  little  one  shall  make  it  holiday.        [Exeunt 


EPILOGUE. 


T  is  ten  to  one,  this  play  can  never  please 
All  that  are  here  :  Some  come  to  take  their  ease. 
And  sleep  an  act  or  two  ;  but  those,  we  fear, 
We  have  frighted  with  our  trumpets ;  so,  't  is  clear. 
They  '11  say,  't  is  naught :  others,  to  hear  the  city 
Abus'd  extremely,  and  to  cry, — "  that 's  witty  !" 
Which  we  have  not  done  neither :  that,  I  fear 

1094 


All  the  expected  good  we  are  like  to  hear 
For  this  play  at  this  time,  is  only  in 
The  merciful  construction  of  good  women ; 
For  such  a  one  we  show'd  them  :  If  they  smile, 
And  say,  't  will  do,  I  know,  within  a  while 
All  the  best  men  are  ours ;  for  't  is  ill  hap. 
If  they  hold,  when  their  ladies  b'd  them  clap. 


i  <: 


"i»">i"<--^-  •■  •-;'■ 


NOTES  TO  KING  HENKY  THE  EIGHTH. 


■  In  a  tong  moUiy  coat,  guarded  with  ydU/w. 

A  a  iilhision  to  the  fools  or  buflToons  who  played  so  great 
ft  part  in  the  interludes  which  held  possession  of  the  stage 
before  Shakespeare's  time,  and  whom  he  has  so  frequently 
intioduced  into  his  own  works. 


'  And  if  you  can  he  merry  then,  I'll  my, 
A  man  may  weep  upon  his  wedding  day. 

Dr.  Johnson  says — "  Though  it  is  very  difficult  to  decide 
whether  short  pieces  be  genuine  or  spurious,  yet  I  cannot 
restrain  myself  from  expressing  my  suspicion  that  neither 
the  Prologue  nor  Epilogue  to  this  play  is  the  work  of  Shakes- 
peare ;  non  vuUus,  non  color.  It  appears  to  me  very  likely 
that  they  were  supplied  by  the  friendship  or  officiousness 
of  Jonson,  whose  manner  they  will  be  perhaps  found  ex- 
actly to  reeemble.  There  is  yet  another  supposition  possi- 
ble :  the  Prologue  and  Epilogue  may  have  been  written  after 
Shakespeare's  departure  from  the  stage,  upon  some  acci- 
dental revival  of  the  play,  and  there  will  then  be  reason  for 
im^ining  that  tlie  writer,  whoever  he  was,  intended  no 
great  kindness  to  him,  this  play  being  recommended  by  a 
subtle  and  covert  censure  of  his  other  works.  There  is,  in 
Shakespeare,  so  much  of  fool  and  fight — 


•  The  fellow 


In  a  long  motley  coat,  guarded  with  yellow — 

appears  so  often  in  his  drama,  that  I  think  it  is  not  very 
likely  that  he  would  have  animadverted  so  severely  on 
himself  All  this,  however,  is  very  dubious,  since  we  know 
not  the  exact  date  of  this  or  the  other  plays,  and  cannot  tell 
how  our  author  might  have  changed  his  practice  or  opin- 
ions." Of  the  correctness  of  this  conjecture  of  Dr.  John- 
son, no  one  acquainted  with  the  dramas  of  the  famous  Ben 
can  entertain  any  doubt ;  the  Prologue  and  Epilogue  un- 
questionably proceeded  from  his  pen,  Malone,  Farmer, 
and  Steevens  also  coincide  in  this  opinion.  The  latter 
says — "I  think  I  now  and  then  perceive  his  hand  (Jon- 
son's)  in  the  dialogue." 


Tin  this  time,  pomp  was  single  ;  but  now  married  to  one 
above  itself. 

Before  this  time  all  pompous  shows  were  exhibited  by 
one  prince  only,  but  on  this  occasion  the  monarchs  of 
England  and  France  vied  with  each  other.  Norfolk  is 
describing  the  meeting  of  Henry  the  Eighth  and  Francis 


the  First  in  a  plain  between  Gaisnes  and  Ardres,  which 
plain  was  afterwards  called  "  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  oi 
Gold." 

*  All  clinquant,  i.  e.,  glittering,  shining. 

»  That  Bevis  was  believed. 

That  is,  the  old  romance  of  Bevis  was  no  longer  held 
to  be  incredible,  because  men  had  seen  such  wonders  done 
in  their  own  days.  This  Bevis  (or  Beavois)  was  a  Saxon 
knight,  who,  for  his  heroism,  was,  by  William  the  Con- 
queror, created  Earl  of  Southampton. 

*  One,  certes,  th^tt  promises  no  eletnent. 

That  is,  no  initiation ;  one  that  had  not  been  practised 
in  the  conducting  of  pageantries. 

^  Must  fetch  him  in  he  papers. 

Ee  papers,  i.  e.,  he  sets  down  on  paper.  The  moaning 
is,  that  those  persons  whom  Wolsey,  even  without  the 
concurrence  of  the  council,  nominated  to  any  duty,  were 
compelled  to  perform  it. 

'  After  the  hideous  storm  {hat followed. 

Holinshed  mentions  a  "  hideous  storme"  of  wind  and 
rain  which  followed  the  meeting  of  Henry  and  Francis, 
and  induced  many  men  to  believe  that  it  prognosticated 
trouble  and  hatred  between  those  princes. 

* A  beggar's  book 

Outweighs  a  noble's  blood. 

A  contemptuous  allusion  to  Wolsey's  learning,  which 
Buckingham  considered  was  more  regarded  tlvan  his  own 
hereditary  rank. 

»»  The  part  my  father  meant  to  act  upon 
The  usurper  Bichard. 

That  is,  Eichard  the  Third.  Buckingham,  the  tool  of 
that  tyrant,  on  being  led  to  execution,  begged  to  see  Iiia 
sovereign,  as  it  was  supposed,  to  move  his  compassion  by 
entreaties,  but  as  we  here  loam  to  be  revenged  by  as8a»i 
einating  him. 

1096 


NOTES  TO  KING  HENRY  THE  EIGHTH. 


»  A  fit  or  two  of  the  face. 

A  fit  of  the  face  Beems  to  be  what  we  now  call  a  grimace, 
an  artificial  cast  of  the  countenance. 

"  A  springhalt  reiqn'd  among  them. 

The  springhalt,  or,  properly,  stringhalt,  is  a  disease  in- 
cident to  horses,  which  gives  them  a  convulsive  motion  in 
their  paces. 

"  Of  food  and  feather. 

This  alludes  to  an  efieminate  fashion  of  the  young  cour- 
liers,  that  of  carrying  fans  of  feathers  in  their  hands.  It 
is  spoken  of  in  Greene's  Farewell  to  Folly,  1617 — '•  we  strive 
to  be  counted  womanish,  by  keeping  of  beauty,  by  curling 
the  hair,  hy  wearing  plumes  of  feathers  in  our  hands,  which 
in  wars,  our  ancestors  wore  on  their  heads." 

>*  As  fights,  and  fi/reworks. 

Some  very  extraordinary  fireworks  were  let  off  on  the 
last  evening  of  the  interview  of  Henry  and  Francis  at  the 
Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold.  The  young  nobility  who  ap- 
pear to  have  been  vain  of  imitating  all  the  pageantry  of  that 
occasion,  might  have  there  acquired  their  fondness  for  the 
pyrotechnic  art. 

"  Short  blistered  breeches. 
Breeches  puffed  or  swelled  out  like  blisters. 

'•  Chambers  discharged. 

Chambers  are  guns  which  stand  erect  upon  their  breech  : 
these  are  called  chambers  because  they  are  merely  cavities 
to  lodge  powder  in,  and  are  not  used  for  offensive  pur- 
poses, but  merely  on  holiday  occasions.  To  this  they  are 
well  suited,  as  tliey  make  a  report  more  than  proportioned 
to  their  size. 

"  You  have  found  him.  Cardinal. 

Holinshed  says  the  cardinal  mistook,  and  pitched  upon 
Bir  Etlward  Neville ;  upon  which  the  king  laughed,  and 
pulled  off  both  Jiis  own  mask  and  Sir  Edward's. 

'8  I  were  unmannerly,  to  take  y<m  out, 
And  not  to  kiss  you. 

At  this  period,  and  for  some  time  after,  to  kiss  a  lady  was 
an  act  of  courtesy,  not  of  familiarity ;  in  dancing  it  was  the 
customary  fee  of  a  lady's  partner.  So,  in  A  Dialogue  be- 
tween Custom  and  Veritie,  concerning  the  use  and  abuse  of 
Daunci/ng  and  Minstrelsie — 

But  some  reply,  what  foole  would  daunce, 

If  that  when  daunce  is  doon. 
He  may  not  have  at  ladyes  lips 

That  which  in  daunce  he  woon. 

'» I  fear  with  dancing  is  a  Utile  heaied. 

In  Cavendish's  Life  of  Wolsey  we  are  told  that  the  king, 
on  being  discovered  and  desired  by  Wolsey  to  take  his 
place,  said  he  would  "  first  go  and  shift  him ;  and  there- 
upon, went  into  the  cardinal's  bed-chnmber,  where  was  a 
great  fire  prepared  for  him,  and  there  he  new  appareled 
himselfewith  rich  and  princely  garments.  And  in  the  king's 
absence  the  dishes  of  the  banquet  were  cleane  taken  away, 
and  the  tables  covered  with  new  and  perfumed  clothes. 
Then  the  king  took  his  seat  under  the  doath  of  estate,  com- 
1096 


mandiug  every  person  to  sit  still  as  before ;  and  then  came 
in  anew  banquet  before  his  majestic  of  two  hundred  dishes, 
and  so  they  passed  the  night  in  banqueting  and  dancing 
until  morning." 


«» Now,  poor  Edward  Bohun. 

The  Duke  of  Buckingham's  name  was  Stafford, 
peare  was  led  into  the  mistake  by  Holinshed. 


Shakes- 


2'  From  princes  into  pages. 

Alluding  to  the  retinue  of  the  Cardinal,  who  had  several 
of  the  nobility  among  his  personal  attendants. 

" My  good  lord,  have  great  care 

I  be  not  found  a  talker. 

That  is,  see  that  my  welcome  of  this  prelate  be  not  found 
to  be  mere  words ;  do  not  let  my  profession  of  hospitality 
prove  mere  talk. 

"  Of  your  soft  cheveril  conscience. 
That  is,  flexible  conscience ;  cheveril  is  soft  kid  leather. 

*♦ In  faith,  for  little  England, 

You  '<f  venture  an  emballing. 

This  is  a  difficult  expression ;  Dr.  Johnson  interprets  U 
thus : — "  You  would  venture  to  be  distinguished  by  the 
ball,  the  ensign  of  royalty."  Malone  reads,  empaUi.ig,  i.  e., 
being  invested  with  ih^pall  or  robes  of  state ;  and  WhuUey 
asks,  might  we  not  read — an  embalming,  i.  e.,  an  anointing 
with  the  balm  or  oil  of  consecration. 

*'  Is  it  bitter?  forty  pence,  no. 

Forty  pence  is  half  a  noble,  or  the  sixth  part  of  a  pound ; 
it  was  the  proverbial  expression  of  a  small  wager  or  a  small 
sum. 

'« Bearing  two  great  silver  pillars. 

Two  pillars  or  crosses  of  silver  were  usually  borne  before 
the  Cardinal ;  the  one  denoted  nis  oeing  legate,  the  other 
was  carried  before  him  as  cardinal  or  archbishop. 

"  Goes  about  the  court. 

"  Because  (says  Cavendish)  she  could  not  come  to  the 
king  directlio,  for  tlie  distance  between  severed  them." 

58  My  learned  and  well-beloved  servant,  Granmar, 
Pr^ythee  return. 

This  is  an  apostrophe  to  the  absent  bishop.  Craumer 
was  then  abroad,  collecting  the  opinions  of  the  various  col- 
leges on  the  subject  of  the  king's  divorce.  This  would  not 
have  been  worth  noticing,  had  not  some  editors  been  led 
into  the  supposition  that  the  lines  were  addressed  to  Cran- 
mer,  and  inserted  a  marginal  direction  to  that  effect. 

9»  Wait  in  the  presence,  i.  e.,  in  the  presence-chamber. 

'•  And  that  way  lam  wife  in. 

That  is,  if  you  come  to  examine  the  title  by  which  1  am 
the  king's  wife ;  or,  if  you  wish  to  know  how  I  have  be- 
haved as  a  wife.  Some  editors  read  wise  for  wife,  i.  e.,  if 
your  business  relates  to  me,  or  to  any  thing  of  which  I 
have  any  knowledge. 


'»  Enter  the  Kirig,  reading  a  schedule. 

That  the  Cardinal  gave  the  King  an  inventory  of  his  own 
private  wealth,  by  mistake,  and  tiiereby  ruined  himself,  is 
a  known  variation  from  the  truth  of  history.  Wolsey's 
full  was  brought  about  by  several  circumstances,  but  chiefly 
by  the  part  which  he  was  compelled  to  take  in  delaying  the 
King's  divorcfe  from  Katharine,  and  by  the  dislike  enter- 
tained towards  him  by  Anne  Boleyn. 

3'  To  Asher-house,  my  Lord  of  Wincli^ter' s. 

Fox,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  died  September  14,  1528, 
and  Wolsey  lield  this  see  in  commendam.  Esher,  there- 
fore, was  his  own  house. 


■  ril  startle  you 


Worse  tlian,  the  sacring  hell,  when  the  brown  wench,  &c. 

The  sacring  or  consecration  bell,  is  the  bell  which  is  rung 
to  give  notice  of  the  approach  of  the  Host  when  it  is  carried 
in  procession.  The  Cardinal's  amorous  propensities  are 
alluded  to  in  some  satires  of  the  period. 

'* One,  that  by  suggestion 

Ty''d  all  the  kingdom. 

By  suggestions  to  the  King  and  Pope,  Wolsey  iy'd,  that 
is,  limited,  circumscribed,  and  set  bounds  to  the  liberties 
and  properties  of  all  persons  in  the  kingdom. 

'*  Enter,  at  a  window  above. 

"The  suspicious  vigilance  (says  Steevens)  of  our  ances- 
^ors  contrived  windows  which  overlooked  the  insides  of 
ehapels,  hallri,  kitchens,  passages,  &c.    Some  of  these  eon- 
IW 


venient  peep-holes  may  still  be  found  in  colleges,  and  sucb 
ancient  houses  as  have  not  suffered  from  the  relbrmationa 
of  modern  architecture.  Without  a  previous  knowledge 
of  this  custom,  Shakespeare's  scenery,  in  the  present  in- 
stance, would  be  obscure." 


•  But  we  all  are  men. 


In  our  own  natures /rail,  and  capable. 
Of  our  Jlcsk,  few  are  angels. 

There  is  evidently  some  corruption  in  this  sentence,  for 
as  it  stands  it  has  no  meaning.  Mr.  Malone's  emendation 
appears  the  most  reasonable.     He  reads — 

In  our  own  natures  frail,  incapable 
Of  our  flesh,  few  are  angels,  &c. 

Mr.  M.  Mason  reads — 

In  our  own  natures  fVail  and  culpable,  &o. 

^''  You  '(i  spa7'e  your  spoons. 

It  was  the  custom  for  the  sponsors  at  christenings  to  oflFer 
gilt  spoons  as  a  present  to  tlie  child.  These  spoons  were 
called  apostle  spoons,  because  the  figures  of  the  apostloB 
were  carved  on  the  tops  of  the  handles. 

'8  Paris-garden. 

A  celebrated  bear-garden  on  the  Bankside,  so  called  from 
Eobert  de  Paris,  who  had  a  house  and  garden  there  iu  tlio 
time  of  Eichard  the  Second. 

3»  That  fire-drale. 

That  is,  that  WiUo'  the  Wisp,  or  ignis  fatuus,  in  aliusiot 
to  bis  flaming  d  oae. 

10»1 


'^rfliln^  anil  Cressih. 


C^HAKESPEARE  in  the  two  concluding  lines  of  the  prologue  to  this  play,  appears  to  have  anticipated 
that  it  would  not  be  exceedingly  popular ;  to  say  the  truth,  it  is  the  most  desultory  and  rambling 
of  his  acknowledged  works,  extending  over  too  great  a  period  of  time  for  the  poet  fairly  to  grasp, 
consisting  of  too  many  incidents  for  effective  combination.  In  this  play  we  miss  that  constructive 
art  which  is  generally  to  be  traced  in  the  works  of  Shakespeare  ;  it  is  less  a  drama  than  a  narrative ; 
the  story  is  unconnected  and  incomplete,  and  the  end  is  no  conclusion.  Hector,  the  hero  and  fa- 
vourite of  the  poet — the  brave,  yet  gentle  and  generous  Hector — is  shamefully  murdered,  in  violation 
both  of  the  laws  of  arms  and  humanity,  and  the  large-limbed  savage  who  hacks  him  to  death  by 
deputy,  escapes  unhurt  and  in  triumph.  Troilus  talks  largely  of  revenge,  but  accomplishes  none ; 
Cressida  is  false  and  unpunished,  and,  we  are  to  suppose,  lives  to  be  the  happy  mistress  of  Diomede. 
until  her  voluptuous  and  fickle  nature  prompts  her  to  abandon  him  as  readily  as  she  has  previoiislv 
left  Troilus. 

But,  vague  as  the  play  is,  it  is  full  of  fine  poetry  and  profound  observations ;  if  we  are  for  a 
moment  angry  with  Shakespeare  for  his  wanderings  or  his  inconsistency,  he  soon  wins  us  back  to  iiim 
with  bribes  of  thought  and  beauty.  The  play  also  has  many  fine  scenes ;  for  instance,  that  between 
Cressida  and  her  uncle,  in  the  first  act,  is  remarkable  for  sparkling  dialogue ;  the  same  may  be  said 
of  the  first  scene  of  the  second  act,  between  the  savage  jester  Thersites,  and  the  blunt  Ajax.  The 
short  scene  in  the  third  act,  where  Helen  is  introduced,  is  exceedingly  natural  and  lively  ;  the  equivo- 
cations of  the  servant  whom  Pandarus  addresses,  are  fully  as  humorous  as  the  sayings  of  the  licensed 
fools  in  other  of  our  poet's  plays.  The  following  scene  in  the  garden  of  Pandarus,  where  the  lovers 
meet  and  confess  their  afiection,  is  exceedingly  beautiful ;  we  are  reminded  for  a  moment  of  a  similar 
scene-  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  but  the  resemblance  soon  ceases — the  passionate,  though  chaste  and 
womanly  affection  of  Juliet,  compared  to  the  wanton  appetite  of  Cressida,  is  as  a  pure  bright  star 
in  heaven  to  the  cold  delusive  fire  which  dances  in  darkness  over  the  stagnant  pool  or  trackless 
marsh.  The  dialogue  between  Achilles  and  Hector,  after  the  tournament,  is  in  Shakespeare's  happiest 
style.  The  bulky  Achilles  scanning  the  Trojan  prince  with  his  eyes,  and  soliciting  the  gods  to  tell 
him  in  what  part  of  his  body  he  should  destroy  great  Hector,  is  the  sublime  of  chivalry.  Hector's 
passionate  rejoinder : — 

Henceforth,  guard  thee  well ; 

For  I  '11  not  kill  thee  there,  nor  there,  nor  there ; 

But,  by  the  forge  that  stithed  Mars  his  helm, 

I  'U  kill  thee  everywhere,  yea,  o'er  and  o'er, 

is  equally  fine;  while  the  whole  of  the  fifth  act  is  full   of  vigour  and  bustle,  and  exceedingly  ani- 
mated. 

Schlegel  ingeniously  accounts  for  the  manner  in  which  Shakespeare  has  treated  this  subject  by 
saying : — "  The  whole  is  one  continued  irony  of  that  crown  of  all  heroic  tales,  the  tale  of  Troy.  The 
contemptible  nature  of  the  Trojan  war,  the  laziness  and  discord  with  which  it  was  carried  on,  so  that 
the  siege  was  made  to  last  ten  years,  are  only  placed  in  clearer  light  by  the  noble  descriptions,  the 

1099 


TR0ILU8  AKD  CRESSBDA. 


Bage  and  ingenious  maxims  with  which  the  wnrk  overflows,  and  the  high  ideas  which  the  heroes 
entertain  of  themselves  and  each  other." 

Shakespeare  is  supposed  to  have  produce4  this  drama  in  1601  or  1602  ;  he  borrowed  the  story 
chiefly  from  Chaucer's  poem  of  the  same  name ;  though  he  was  also  indebted  to  Lydgate's  Historie 
of  the  Destruction  of  Troy,  and  the  first  seven  books  of  Chapman's  translation  of  Homer.  But  his 
chief  obligations  were  certainly  to  Chaucer,  who  details  the  love  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  and  the 
assistance  they  derived  from  Pandarus,  at  great  length.  In  his  story  Troilus,  is  slain  by  Achilles; 
and,  says  the  venerable  old  gossip : — 

And  whan  that  he  was  slain  in  this  manere 
His  ligbte  goste  ful  blisfully  is  went 
Up  to  the  holownesse  of  the  seventh  sphere, 
In  his  place  leting  everiche  element, 
And  there  he  suwe,  with  ful  avisement. 
The  erratike  sterres,  hearkening  harmonie, 
With  sownis  ful  of  hevin's  melodie. 

And  doun  from  thennis  fast  he  gau  aviso 
This  litil  spotte  of  erth  that  witli  the  se 
Embraced  is,  and  fully  gan  dispise 
This  wretchid  world,  and  helde  al  vanito 
In  respecte  of  the  plaine  felieite 
That  is  in  heven  above,  and  at  the  last 
There  he  was  slaine  his  loking  doun  he  cast. 

The  old  poet's  story  consists  of  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-nine  stanzas,  and  is,  in  my  estima- 
tion, suflSciently  tedious  to  wade  through.  It  may  be  very  barbarous  and  tasteless  to  say  so  ;  but 
although  sentiments,  which  might  be  eloquent  but  for  the  rude  and  obsolete  language  in  which  they 
are  expressed,  occasionally  occur,  still  the  whole  tale  does  not  contain  one  great  or  brilliant  thought, 
or  one  exquisitely  poetical  simile.  Little  more  than  a  century  and  a  half  occurred  between  the  death 
of  Chaucer  and  the  birth  of  Shakespeare,  yet  the  works  of  the  former  are  obsolete  and  half-forgotten, 
while  the  dramas  of  the  latter  are  yet  as  fresh,  vivid,  and  attractive  as  if  they  had  but  just  been  given 
to  the  world.  The  works  of  Chaucer  have  but  a  feeble  ray  of  genius,  cold  and  flickering — those  of 
Shakespeare  contain  a  pregnant  heat  of  vital  power  which  attracts  and  warms  all  hearts. 

In  the  collected  works  of  Chaucer,  the  story  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is  followed  by  The  Testa- 
ment of  Creseide,  a  conclusion  of  the  tale  by  another  writer,  supposed  to  be  one  Robert  Henderson,  a 
schoolmaster  of  Dunfermline.  In  this  continuation,  Creseide,  for  railing  upon  Venus  and  Cupid,  is 
by  the  gods  transformed  into  a  leper;  and  ends  her  life  in  great  poveity  and  misery.  The  idea  is 
coarse  and  unpoetical,  but  it  is  not  unskilfully  treated  when  we  consider  the  rudeness  of  our  language 
at  that  period. 
1100 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 


Peiam,  King  of  Troy. 
Appears,  Act  II.  bo.  2.    Act  V.  so.  8. 

Hector,  a  Son  of  Priam. 

Appears,  A  ?t  I.  so.  2.    Act  II.  ec.  2.    Act  IV.  so.  5.     Act  V. 
fic.  1 ;  80.  3 ;  sc.  4;  so.  6 ;  sc.  9. 

Troilus,  a  Son  of  Priam. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2.  Act  II.  sc.  2.  Act  III.  so.  2. 
Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  so.  4 ;  sc.  5.  Act  V.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ; 
so.  4;  80.  6;  sc.  9. 

Paris,  a  Son  of  Priam. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act 
IV.  sc.  1 ;  so.  8 ;  so.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  8. 

Deiphobus,  a  Son  of  Priam. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4 

Helenus,  a  Son  of  Priam. 
s,  Act  I.  sc,  2.    Act  II.  80.  2. 


.^NEAS,  a  Trojan  Commander, 
rs,  Act  I.  80.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  so.  3.    Act  IV.  bo.  1 ;  so.  2 ; 
80.  8 ;  8C.  4 ;  bo.  5.    Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  so.  11. 

Antenor,  a  Trojan  Commander. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  bc.  8  ;  so.  4. 

Calchas,  a   Trojan  Priest,  taking  part  xoith  the 

Greeks. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  2- 

Pandarus,  Uncle  to  Cressida. 

Jvpears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  IV. 

so.  2 ;  80.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  11. 

Margarelon,  a  bastard  Son  of  Priam. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  8. 

Agamemnon,  the  Grecian  General. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  8.    Act  II.  sc.  3.     Act  III.  so.  3.    Act 

IV.  so.  5.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  5 ;  sc.  10. 

Menelaus,  his  Brother. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.     Act  III.  so.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  5.    Act 

V.  sc.  1 ;  80.  8  ;  so.  10. 

Achilles,  a  Grecian  Commander. 

Appears,  Act  II.  so.  1 ;  so.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  3.    Act  IV.  so.  5. 

Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  5  ;  sc.  6 ;  sc.  7 ;  ec.  9. 


Ajax,  a  Grecian  Commander. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3.    Act  III.  so.  8.    Act  IV.  so.  5, 

Act  V.  80. 1 ;  sc.  5 ;  sc.  6 ;  sc.  10. 

Ulysses,  a  Grecian  Commander. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  3.    Act  III.  so.  8.     Act 

IV.  so,  6.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2;  bo.  5. 

Nestor,  a  Grecian  Commander. 

Appears,  Act  I,  sc.  3.     Act  II.  sc.  8.    Act  III.  so.  3.    Act 

IV,  sc,  5.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  so.  5 ;  sc.  10. 

DiOMEDES,  a  Grecian  Commander. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  8.    Act  III.  so.  8.    Act  IV.  bc  1 ;  so. 
3 ;  80.  4 ;  80.  5.    Act  V.  so.  1 ;  so.  2 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc.  5 ;  sc.  6 ; 
80.  10. 

Patroclus,  a  Friend  of  Achilles. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc,  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  III,  sc.  8.     Act  IV.  sc.  5. 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Thersites,  a  deformed  and  scurrilous  Greek. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  so,  3.    Act  III.  sc.  3.    Act  V.  so.  1 ; 

sc.  2  ;  so,  6 ;  so.  8. 

Alexander,  Servant  to  Cressida, 

*,  Act  I.  sc.  2. 


Servant  to  Troilus. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  2. 

Servant  to  Paris. 

Appears,  Act  III.  so.  1. 

Servant  to  Diomedes. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  6. 

Helen,  Wife  to  Menelaus,  hut  living  toith  Pan'ik 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Andromache,  TF'i/e  to  Hector. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc,  3. 

Cassandra,  Daughter  to  Priam,  a  Prophetess 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2.    Act  V,  sc.  8, 

Cressida,  Daughter  to  Calchas. 

Appears,  Act  I,  so.  2.     Act  III.  so.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  8; 
sc.  4 ;  sc.  5.     Act  V.  so.  2. 

Trojan  and  Greek  Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE.  -Troy  ;  and  the  Grecian  Camp  before  tt. 

1101 


€xn\[m  0ni  Crfggiita. 


PKOLOGUE. 


in  Troy   ciiere  lies  the  scene.     From  isles  of 

Greece 
riie  pnnces  orgulous,'  their  high  blood  chaf  d, 
Have  to  the  port  of  Athens  sent  their  ships, 
Fraught  with  the  ministers  and  instruments 
Of  cruel  war:  Sixty  and  nine,  that  wore 
Their  crownets  regal,  from  the  Athenian  bay 
Put  forth    toward   Phrygia :    and   their  vow   is 

made. 
To  ransack  Troy ;  within  whose  strong  immures 
The  ravish'd  Helen,  Menelaus'  queen, 
With    wanton   Paris   sleeps :    And    that  's    the 

quairel. 
To  Tenedos  they  come ; 

And  the  deep-drawing  barks  do  there  disgorge 
Their  warlike  fraughtage :  Now  on  Dardan  plains 
The  fresh  and  yet  unbruised  Greeks  do  pitch 


Their  brave  pavilions  :  Priam's  six^ated  city, 

Dardan,  and  Tymbria,  Ilias,  Chetas,  Trojan, 

And  Antenorides,  with  massy  staples, 

And  corresponsive  and  fulfilling  bolts, 

Sperr  up  the  sons  of  Troy." 

Now  expectation,  tickling  skittish  spirits, 

On  one  and  other  side,  Trojan  and  Greek, 

Sets  all  on  hazard : — And  hither  am  I  come 

A  prologue  arm'd,' — but  not  in  confidence 

Of  author's  pen,  or  actor's  voice  ;  but  suited 

In  like  conditions  as  our  argument, — 

To  tell  you,  fair  beholders,  that  our  play 

Leaps  o'er  the  vaunt*  and  firstlings  of  those  broils 

'Ginning  in  the  middle  ;  starting  thence  away 

To  what  may  be  digested  in  a  play. 

Like,  or  find  fault ;  do  as  your  pleasures  are ; 

Now  good,  or  bad,  't  is  but  the  chance  of  war. 


ACT    I. 


I 


SCENE  I.— Troy.     Before  Priam's  Palace. 

Enter  Troilus  armed,  and  Pandarus. 

Tro.  Call  here  my  varlet,  I  '11  unarm  again  : 
Why  should  I  war  without  the  walls  of  Troy, 
Tliat  find  such  cruel  battle  here  within  ? 
E;ich  Trojan,  that  is  master  of  his  heart, 
Let  him  to  field;  Troilus,  alas!  hath  none. 

Pan.  Will  this  geer  ne'er  be  mended  ? 

Tro.   The   Greeks   are  strong,  and   skilful   to 
their  strength, 
Fierce  to  their  skill,  and  to  their  fierceness  valiant; 
1102 


But  I  am  weaker  than  a  woman's  tear, 
Tamer  than  sleep,  fonder  than  ignorance ; 
Less  valiant  than  the  virgin  in  the  night. 
And  skill-less  as  unpractis'd  infancy. 

Pan.  Well,  I  have  told  you  enough  of  this  ; 
for  my  part,  I  '11  not  meddle  nor  make  no  further. 
He,  that  will  have  a  cake  out  of  the  wheat,  musl 
needs  tarry  the  grinding. 

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  the  grinding;  but  you  must  tarry  the 
bolting. 

Tro.  Have  I  not  tarried? 


ACT    I. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE    1 


Pan.  Ay,  the  bolting ;  but  you  must  tarry  the 
leavening. 

Tro.  Still  have  I  tarried. 

Pan.  Ay,  to  the  leavening ;  but  here  's  yet  in 
the  word — hereafter,  the  kneading,  the  making 
of  the  cake,  the  heating  of  the  oven,  and  the 
baking;  nay,  you  must  stay  the  cooling  too,  or 
you  may  chance  to  burn  your  lips. 

Tro.  Patience  herself,  what  goddess  e'er  she  be. 
Doth  lesser  blench  at  sufferance  than  I  do. 
At  Priam's  royal  table  do  I  sit ; 
And  when  fair  Cressid  comes  into  my  thoughts, — 

So,  Traitor  ! — when  she  comes  ! When  is  she 

thence  ? 

Pan.  Well,  she  looked  yesternight  fairer  than 
ever  I  saw  her  look,  or  any  woman  else. 

Tra     I   was  about  to  tell   thee, — When   my 
heart, 
As  wedged  with  a  sigh,  would  rive  in  twain ; 
Lest  Hector  or  my  father  should  perceive  me, 
I  have  (as  when  the  sun  doth  light  a  storm,) 
Bury'd  this  sigh  in  wrinkle  of  a  smile ; 
But  sorrow,  that  is  couch'd  in  seeming  gladness. 
Is  like  that  mirth  fate  turns  to  sudden  sadness. 

Pan.  An  her  hair  were  not  somewhat  darker 
than  Helen's,  (well,  go  to,)  there  were  no  more 
comparison  between  the  women, — But,  for  my 
part,  she  is  my  kinswoman  ;  I  would  not,  as  they 
term  it,  praise  her, — But  I  would  somebody  had 
heard  her  talk  yesterday,  as  I  did.  I  will  not 
dispraise  your  sister  Cassandra's  wit ;  but — 

Tro.  O  Pandarus !  I  tell  thee,  Pandarus, — 
When  I  do  tell  thee,  There  my  hopes  lie  drown'd, 
Reply  not  in  how  many  fathoms  deep 
They  lie  indrench'd.     I  tell  thee,  I  am  mad 
In  Cressid's  love  :  Thou  answer'st.  She  is  fair ; 
Pour'st  in  the  open  ulcer  of  my  heart 
Her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  cheek,  her  gait,  her  voice  ; 
Handiest  in  thy  discourse,  O,  that  her  hand, 
In  whose  comparison  all  whites  are  ink, 
Writing   their    OAvn    reproach  ;    To    whose   soft 

seizure 
The  cygnet's  down  is  harsh,  and  spirit  of  sense 
Hard  as  the  palm   of  ploughman  I     This  thou 

tell'st  me, 
As  true  thou  tell'st  me,  when  I  say — I  love  her ; 
But,  saying  thus,  instead  of  oil  and  balm, 
Thou  lay'st  in  every  gash  that  love  hath  given  me 
The  knife  that  made  it. 

Pan.  I  speak  no  more  than  truth. 

Tro.  Thou  dost  not  speak  so  much. 

Pan.  'Faith,  I  '11  not  meddle  in  't.     Let  her  be 


as  she  is  :  if  she  be  fair,  't  is  the  better  for  her  ;  an 
she  be  not,  she  has  the  mends  in  her  own  hands. 

Tro.  Good  Pandarus  !  How  now,  Pandarus  ? 

Pan.  I  have  had  my  labour  for  my  travel ;  ill- 
thought  on  of  her,  and  ill-thought  on  of  you 
gone  between  and  between,  but  small  thanks  for 
my  labour. 

Tro.  What,  art  thou  angry,  Pandarus  ?  what, 
with  me  ? 

Pan.  Because  she  is  kin  to  me,  therefore,  she 's 
not  so  fair  as  Helen :  an  she  were  not  kin  to  me, 
she  would  be  as  fair  on  Friday,  as  Helen  is  on 
Sunday.  But  what  care  I  ?  I  care  not,  an  she 
were  a  black-a-moor  ;  't  is  all  one  to  me. 

Tro.  Say  I,  she  is  not  fair? 

Pan.  I  do  not  care  whether  you  do  or  no. 
She's  a  fool  to  stay  behind  her  father  ;*  let  her  to 
the  Greeks ;  and  so  I  '11  tell  her  the  next  time  1 
see  her :  for  my  part,  I  '11  meddle  nor  make  no 
more  in  the  matter. 

Tro.  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Not  I. 

Tro.  Sweet  Pandarus, — 

Pan.  Pray  you,  speak  no  more  to  me ;  I  will 
leave  all  as  I  found  it,  and  there  an  end. 

[Exit  Pan.     An  Alarm 

Tro.  Peace,  you  ungracious  clamours!  peace, 
rude  sounds ! 
Fools  on  both  sides  I  Helen  must  needs  be  fair, 
When  with  your  blood  you  daily  paint  her  thus. 
I  cannot  fight  upon  this  argument ; 
It  is  too  starv'd  a  subject  for  my  sword. 
But  Pandarus — 0  gods,  how  do  you  plague  me  I 
I  cannot  come  to  Cressid,  but  by  Pandar ; 
And  he  's  as  tetchy  to  be  woo'd  to  woo. 
As  she  is  stubborn-chaste  against  all  suit. 
Tell  me,  Apollo,  for  thy  Daphne's  love. 
What  Cressid  is,  what  Pandar,  and  what  we  ? 
Her  bed  is  India  ;  there  she  lies,  a  pearl : 
Between  our  Ilium,'  and  where  she  resides, 
Let  it  be  call'd  the  wild  and  wandering  flood ; 
Ourself,  the  merchant ;  and  this  sailing  Pandar, 
Our  doubtful  hope,  our  convoy,  and  our  bark. 

Alarum.     Enter  ^neas. 

uEne.    How  now,   prince  Troilus  ?    wherefore 

not  afield  ? 
Tro.  Because  not  there  :  This  woman's  answer 
sorts, 
For  womanish  it  is  to  be  from  thence. 
What  news,  u^neas,  from  the  field  to-day  ? 
jEne.  That  Paris  is  returned  home,  and  hurt 

1103 


ACT   I. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE   n. 


Tro.  By  whom,  JSneas  ? 
^ne.  Troilus,  by  Menelaus, 

Tro.  Let  Paris  bleed :  't  is  but  a  scar  to  scorn  ; 
Paris  is  gor'd  with  Menelaus'  horn.         [^Alarum. 
jEne.  Hark !  what  good  sport  is  out  of  town 

to-day ! 
Tro.  Better  at  home,  if  "  would  I  might,"  were 
"  may." — 
But,  to  the  sport  abroad; — Are  you  bound  thither  ? 
uEne.  In  all  swift  haste. 
Tro.  Come,  go  we  then  together. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  VL.—The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  Cressida  and  Alexander. 

Ores.  Who  were  those  went  by  ? 

Alex.  Queen  Hecuba,  and  Helen. 

Ores.  And  whither  go  they  ? 

Alex.  Up  to  the  eastern  tower. 

Whose  height  commands  as  subject  all  the  vale. 
To  see  the  battle.     Hector,  whose  patience 
Is,  as  a  virtue,  fix'd,  to-day  was  mov'd : 
He  chid  Andromache,  and  struck  his  armourer ; 
And,  like  as  there  were  husbandry  in  war. 
Before  the  sun  rose,  he  was  harness'd  light. 
And  to  the  field  goes  he ;  where  every  flower 
Did,  as  a  prophet,  weep  what  it  foresaw 
In  Hector's  wrath. 

Ores.  What  was  his  cause  of  anger  ? 

Alex.  The  noise  goes,  this  :   There  is  among 
the  Greeks 
A  lord  <f  Trojan  blood,  nephew  to  Hector; 
They  call  him,  Ajax. 

Ores.  Good  :  And  what  of  him  ? 

Alex.  They  say  he  is  a  very  man  per  se, 
And  stands  alone. 

Ores.  So  do  all  men ;  unless  they  are  drunk, 
sick,  or  have  no  legs. 

Alex.  This  man,  lady,  hath  robbed  many  beasts 
of  their  particular  additions ;  he  is  as  valiant  as 
the  lion,  churlish  as  the  bear,  slow  as  the  ele- 
phant :  a  man  into  whom  nature  hath  so  crowded 
humours,  that  his  valour  is  crushed  into  folly,  his 
folly  sauced  with  discretion  :  There  is  no  man 
hath  a  virtue  that  he  hath  not  a  glimpse  of;  nor 
any  man  an  attaint,  but  he  carries  some  stain  of 
it :  he  is  melancholy  without  cause,  and  merry 
against  the  hair:  He  hath  the  joints  of  every 
thing ;  but  every  thing  so  out  of  joint,  that  he  is 
a  gouty  Briareus,  many  hands  and  no  use;  or 
purblind  Argus,  all  eyes  and  no  sight. 
11U4 


Ores.  But  how  should  this  man,  that  makes 
me  smile,  make  Hector  angry  ? 

Alex.  They  say,  he  yesterday  coped  Hector  in 
the  battle,  and  struck  him  down ;  the  disdain  and 
shame  whereof  have  ever  since  kept  Hector  fast- 
ing and  waking. 

Enter  Pandarus. 

Ores.  Who  comes  here  ? 

Alex.  Madam,  your  uncle  Pandarus. 

Ores.  Hector  's  a  gallant  man. 

Alex.  As  may  be  in  the  world,  lady. 

Fan.  What 's  that  ?  what 's  that « 

Cres.  Good  morrow,  uncle  Pandarus. 

Fan.  Good  morrow,  cousin  Cressid:  What  do 
you  talk  of? — Good  morrow,  Alexander. — How 
do  you,  cousin  ?  When  were  you  at  Ilium  ? 

Cres.  This  morning,  uncle. 

Fan,  What  were  you  talking  of,  when  I  came 
Was  Hector  armed,  and  gone,  ere  ye  came  to 
Ilium  ?  Helen  was  not  up,  was  she  ? 

Ci'es.  Hector  was  gone ;  but  Helen  was  not 
up. 

Fan.  E'en  so ;  Hector  was  stirring  early. 

Cres.  That  were  we  talking  of,  and  of  bia 
anger. 

Fan.  Was  he  angry  ? 

Cres.  So  he  says  here.  • 

Fan.  True,  he  was  so ;  I  know  the  cause  too ; 
he  *11  lay  about  him  to-day,  I  can  tell  them  that: 
and  there  is  Troilus  will  not  come  far  behind  him ; 
let  them  take  heed  of  Troilus ;  I  can  tell  them 
that  too. 

Cres.  What,  is  he  angry  too  ? 

Fan.  Who,  Troilus  ?  Troilus  is  the  better  man 
of  the  two. 

Cres.  O,  Jupiter !  there  's  no  comparison. 

Fan.  What,  not  between  Troilus  and  Hector  ? 
Do  you  know  a  man  if  you  see  him  ? 

Cres.  Ay ;  if  ever  I  saw  him  before,  and  knew 
him. 

Fan.  Well,  I  say,  Troilus  is  Troilus. 

Cres.  Then  you  say  as  I  say ;  for,  I  am  sure, 
he  is  not  Hector. 

Fan.  No,  nor  Hector  is  not  Troilus,  in  some 
degrees. 

Cres.  'T  is  just  to  each  of  them ;  he  is  himself. 

Fan.  Himself?  Alas,  poor  Troilus!  I  would 
he  were, 

Cres.  So  he  is. 

Fan. 'Condition,  I  had  gone  bare-foot  to 

India. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


BCENB   II. 


Cres.  He  is  not  Hector. 

Pan.  Himself?  no,  he  's  not  himself. — Would 
'a  were  himself!  Well,  the  gods  are  above;  Time 
must  friend,  or  end :  Well,  Troilus,  well, — I 
would,  ray  heart  were  in  her  body  ! — No,  Hector 
is  not  a  better  man  than  Troilus. 

Cres.  Excuse  me. 

Pan.  He  is  elder. 

Cres,  Pardon  me,  pardon  me. 

Pan.  The  other  's  not  come  to  't ;  you  shall 
tell  me  another  tale,  when  the  other  's  come  to  't. 
Hector  shall  not  have  his  wit  this  year. 

Cres.  He  shall  not  need  it,  if  he  have  his  own. 

Pan.  Nor  his  qualities ; 

Cres.  No  matter. 

Pan.  Nor  his  beauty. 

Cres.  'T  would  not  become  him,  his  own 's 
better. 

Pan.  You  have  no  judgment,  niece :  Helen 
herself  swore  the  other  day,  that  Troilus,  for  a 
brown  favour,  (for  so  't  is,  I  must  confess,) — Not 
brown  neither. 

Cres.  No,  but  brown. 

Pan.  'Faith,  to  say  truth,  brown  and  not 
brown. 

Cres.  To  say  the  truth,  true  and  not  true. 

Pan,  She  praised  his  complexion  above  Paris. 

Cres.  Why,  Paris  hath  colour  enough. 

Pan.  So  he  has. 

Cres.  Then,  Troilus  should  have  too  much  :  if 
she  praised  him  above,  his  complexion  is  higher 
than  his  ;  he  having  colour  enough,  and  the  other 
higher,  is  too  flaming  a  praise  for  a  good  com- 
plexion. I  had  as  lief,  Helen's  golden  tongue  had 
commended  Troilus  for  a  copper  nose. 

Pan.  I  swear  to  you,  I  think,  Helen  loves  him 
better  than  Paris. 

Cres.  Then  she's  a  merry  Greek,  indeed. 

Pan.  Nay,  I  am  sure  she  does.  She  came  to 
him  the  other  day  into  a  compassed  window,^  and, 
you  know,  he  has  not  past  three  or  four  hairs  on 
his  chin. 

Cres.  Indeed,  a  tapster's  arithmetic  may  soon 
bring  his  particulars  therein  to  a  total. 

Pan.  Why,  he  is  very  young:  and  yet  will 
h  J,  within  three  pound,  lift  as  much  as  his  brother 
Hector, 

Cres.  Is  he  so  young  a  man,  and  so  old  a 
litter  ?« 

Pan.  But,  to  prove  to  you  that  Helen  loves 
him  ; — she  came,  and  puts  me  her  white  hand  to 
Lis  cloven  chin. 

139 


Cres.^  Juno  have  mercy  ! — How  came  it  cloven  ? 

Pan.  Why,  you  know,  't  is  dimpled  ;  I  think, 
his  smiling  becomes  him  better  than  any  man  in 
all  Phrygia. 

Cres.  O,  he  smiles  valiantly . 

Pan.  Does  he  not  ? 

Cres.  O  yes,  an  't  were  a  cloud  in  autumn. 

Pan.  Why,  go  to  then : — But  to  prove  to  you 
that  Helen  loves  Troilus, 

Cres.  Troilus  will  stand  to  the  proof,  if  you  11 
prove  it  so. 

Pan.  Troilus  ?  Why,  he  esteems  her  no  more 
than  I  esteem  an  addle  egg. 

Cres.  If  you  love  an  addle  egg  as  well  as  you 
love  an  idle  head,  you  would  eat  chickens  i'  the 
shell. 

Pan.  I  cannot  choose  but  laugh,  to  think  how 
she  tickled  his  chin  ; — Indeed,  she  has  a  marvel- 
lous white  hand,  I  must  needs  confess. 

Cres.  Without  the  rack. 

Pan.  And  she  takes  upon  her  to  spy  a  white 
hair  on  his  chin. 

Cres.  Alas,  poor  chin !  many  a  wart  is  richer. 

Pan.  But,  there  was  such  laughing; — Queer. 
Hecuba  laughed,  that  ner  eyes  ran  o'er. 

Cres.  With  mill-stones. 

Pan.  And  Cassandra  laughed. 

Cres.  But  there  was  a  more  temperate  fire  unde 
the  pot  of  her  eyes ; — Did  her  eyes  run  o'er  too 

Pan.  And  Hector  laughed. 

Cres.  At  what  was  all  this  laughing  ? 

Pan.  Marry,  at  the  white  hair  that  Helen  spied 
on  Troilus'  chin. 

Cres.  An  't  had  been  a  green  hair,  I  should 
have  laughed  too. 

Pan.  They  laughed  not  so  much  at  the  hair, 
as  at  his  pretty  answer. 

Cres.  What  was  his  answer  ? 

Pan.  Quoth  she,  "  Here 's  but  one  and  fifty 
hairs  on  your  chin,  and  one  of  them  is  white." 

Cres.  This  is  her  question. 

Pan.  That 's  true ;  make  no  question  of  that. 
"  One  and  fifty  hairs,"  quoth  he,  "  and  one  white : 
That  white  hair  is  my  father,  and  all  the  rest  are 
his  sons."  "  Jupiter !"  quoth  she.  "  which  of 
these  hairs  is  Paris,  my  husband  ?"  "  The  forked 
one,"  quoth  he;  "pluck  it  out,  and  give  it  him." 
But,  there  was  such  laughing!  and  Helen  so 
blushed,  and  Paris  so  chafed,  and  all  the  rest  so 
laughed,  that  it  passed. 

Cres.  So  let  it  now ;  for  it  has  been  a  great 
while  going  by. 


ACT   I. 


TROILUS  AND  CRES8IDA. 


HUENE   n. 


Pan.  Well,  cousin,  I  told  you  a  thing  yester- 
day ;  think  on  't. 

Ores.  So  I  do. 

Pan.  I  'II  be  sworn,  't  is  true ;  he  will  weep 
you,  an  't  were  a  man  born  in  April. 

Ores.  And  I  '11  spring  up  in  his  tears,  an  't  were 
a  nettle  against  May.  \^A  Retreat  sounded. 

Pan.  Hark,  they  are  coming  from  the  field : 
Shall  we  stand  up  here,  and  see  them,  as  they 
pass  toward  Ilium  ?  good  niece,  do ;  sweet  niece 
Cressida. 

Ores.  At  your  pleasure. 

Pan.  Here,  here,  here  's  an  excellent  place ; 
here  we  may  see  most  bravely :  I  '11  tell  you  them 
all  by  their  names,  as  they  pass  by ;  but  mark 
Troilus  above  the  rest. 

^NEAS  passes  over  ike  Stage. 

Ores.  Speak  not  so  loud. 

Pan.  That 's  ^neas :  Is  not  that  a  brave  man  I 
he  's  one  of  the  flowers  of  Troy,  I  can  tell  you : 
But  mark  Troilus ;  you  shall  see  anon. 

Ores.  Who  's  that  ? 

Antenor /»a5ses  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Antenor;  he  has  a  shrewd  wit,  I 
can  tell  you  ;  and  he  's  a  man  good  enough  :  he  's 
one  o'  the  soundest  judgments  in  Troy,  whoso- 
ever, and  a  proper  man  of  his  person  : — When 
comes  Troilus  ? — I  '11  show  you  Troilus  anon  ;  if 
he  see  me,  you  shall  see  him  nod  at  me. 

Ores.  Will  he  give  you  the  nod  ? 

Pan.  You  shall  see. 

Ores.  If  he  do,  the  rich  shall  have  more. 

Hector  passes  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Hector,  that,  that,  look  you,  that; 
There 's  a  fellow ! — Go  thy  way,  Hector ; — There  's 
a  brave  man,  niece. — 0  brave  Hector  ! — Look, 
how  he  looks  !  there  's  a  countenance :  Is  't  not  a 
brave  man  ? 

Ores.  O,  a  brave  man ! 

Pan.  Is  'a  not  ?  It  does  a  man's  heart  good — 
Look  you  what  hacks  are  on  his  helmet  ?  look 
you  yonder,  do  you  see  ?  look  you  there  I  There  's 
no  jesting :  there 's  laying  on  ;  take  't  off  who 
will,  as  they  say :  there  be  hacks  ! 

Ores.  Be  those  with  swords  ? 

Paris  passes  over. 

Pan.  Swords  ?    any  thing,  he  cares  not :  an 
the  dev'l  come  to  him,  it 's  all  one  :  By  god's  lid, 
1106 


it  does  one's  heart  good  : — ^Yonder  comes  Paris, 
yonder  comes  Paris :  look  ye  yonder,  niece  :  Is  't 
not  a  gallant  man  too,  is  't  not  ? — Why,  this  is 
brave  now. — Who  said,  he  came  hurt  home  to- 
day ?  he  's  not  hurt :  why,  this  will  do  Helen's 
heart  good  now.  Ha !  'would  I  could  see  Troilus 
now  ; — you  shall  see  Troilus  anon. 
Ores.  Who  's  that  ? 

Helenus  passes  over. 

Pan.  That 's  Helenus, — I  marvel,  where  Troi- 
lus is: — That's  Helenus; — I  think  he  went  not 
forth  to-day  : — That 's  Helenus. 

Ores.  Can  Helenus  fight,  uncle  ? 

Pan.  Helenus  ?  no ; — yes,  he  '11  fight  indiffer- 
ent well : — I  marvel,  where  Troilus  is  ! — Hark ; 
do  you  not  hear  the  people  cry,  Troilus  ? — Helenus 
is  a  priest. 

Ores.  What  sneaking  fellow  comes  yonder  ? 

Troilus  passes  over. 

Pan.  Where  ?  yonder  ?  that 's  Deiphobus : 
'T  is  Troilus !  there  's  a  man,  niece  ! — Hem  ! — 
Brave  Troilus  !  the  prince  of  chivalry  ! 

Ores.  Peace,  for  shame,  peace  ! 

Pan.  Mark  him  ;  note  him  ; — 0  brave  Troi- 
lus!— look  well  upon  him,  niece:  look  you,  how 
his  sword  is  blooded,  and  his  helm  more  hack'd 
than  Hector's  :  And  how  he  looks,  and  how  he 
goes ! — O  admirable  youth  1  he  ne'er  saw  three 
and  twenty.  Go  thy  way,  Troilus,  go  thy  way  ; 
had  I  a  sister  were  a  grace,  or  a  daughter  a  god- 
dess, he  should  take  his  choice.  O  admirable 
man  1  Paris  ? — Paris  is  dirt  to  him  ;  and,  I  war- 
rant, Helen,  to  change,  would  give  an  eye  to  boot. 

Forces  pass  over  the  Stage. 

Ores.  Here  come  more. 

Pan.  Asses,  fools,  dolts  I  chaff  and  bran,  chaff 
and  bran  I  porridge  after  meat!  I  could  live  and 
die  i'  the  eyes  of  Troilus.  Ne'er  look,  ne'er  look  ; 
the  eagles  are  gone  ;  crows  and  daws,  crows  and 
daws !  I  had  rather  be  such  a  man  as  Troilus, 
than  Agamemnon  and  all  Greece. 

Ores.  There  is  among  the  Greeks,  Achilles  ;  a 
better  man  than  Troilus. 

Pan.  Achilles  ?  a  drayman,  a  porter,  a  very 
camel. 

Ores.  Well,  well. 

Pan.  Well,  well? — Why,  have  you  .;•  v  dis 
cretion  ?  have  you  any  eyes  ?  Do  you  know 
what   a   man   is?     Is    lot   birth,  beauty,  good 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCBNE    lit. 


shape,  discourse,  manhood,  learning,  gentleness, 
virtue,  youth,  liberality,  and  such  like,  the  spice 
and  salt  that  season  a  man ! 

Cres.  Ay,  a  minced  man  :  and  then  to  be  baked 
with  no  date  in  the  pie, — for  then  the  man's  date 
is  out. 

Pan.  You  are  such  another  woman !  one 
knows  not  at  what  ward  you  lie. 

Cres.  Upon  my  back,  to  defend  my  belly ; 
upon  my  wit,  to  defend  my  wiles;  upon  my  se- 
crecy, to  defend  mine  honesty  ;  my  mask,  to  de- 
fend my  beauty ;  and  you,  to  defend  all  these : 
and  at  all  these  wards  I  lie,  at  a  thousand  watches. 

Pan.  Say  one  of  your  watches. 

Cres.  Nay,  I  '11  watch  you  for  that ;  and  that 's 
one  of  the  chiefest  of  them  too :  if  I  cannot  ward 
what  I  would  not  have  hit,  I  can  watch  you  for 
telling  how  I  took  the  blow  ;  unless  it  swell  past 
hiding,  and  then  it  is  past  watching. 

Pan.  You  are  such  another  ! 

Enter  Troilus'  Boy. 

Boy.  Sir,  my  Jord  would  instantly  speak  with 
you. 

Pan.  Where? 

Boy.  At  your  own  house ;  there  he  unarms 
him. 

Pan.  Good  boy,  tell  him  I  come :  [^Exit  Boy. 
I  doubt,  he  be  hurt. — Fare  ye  well,  good  niece. 

Cres.  Adieu,  uncle. 

Pan.  I  '11  be  with  you,  niece,  by  and  by. 

Cres.  To  bring,  uncle, 

Pan.  Ay,  a  token  from  Troilus. 

Cres.  By  the  same  token — you  are  a  bawd. — 

[^Exit  Pan. 
Words,  vows,  gifts,  tears,  and  love's  full  sacrifice. 
He  offers  in  another's  enterprise : 
But  more  in  Troilus  thousand  fold  I  see 
Than  in  the  glass  of  Pandar's  praise  may  be ; 
Yet  hold  I  off.     Women  are  angels,  wooing : 
Things  won  are  done,  joy's  soul  lies  in  the  doing  : 
That  she  belov'd  knows  nought,  that  knows  not 

this, — 
Men  prize  the  thing  ungain'd  more  than  it  is : 
That  she  was  never  yet,  that  ever  knew 
Love  got  so  sweet,  as  when  desire  did  sue : 
Therefore  this  maxim  out  of  love  I  teach, — 
Achievement  is  command  ;  ungain'd,  beseech  : 
Then  though  my  heart's  content  firm  love  doth 

bear. 
Nothing  of  that  shall  from  mine  eyes  appear. 

[Exit. 


SCENE  III.— The  Grecian    Camp.      Before 
Agamemnon's  Tent. 

Trumpets.     Enter  Agamemnon,  Nestor,  Ulys- 
ses, Menelaus,  and  Others. 

Agam.  Princes, 
What  grief  hath  set  the  jaundice  on  your  cheeks! 
The  ample  proposition,  that  hope  makes 
In  all  designs  begun  on  earth  below, 
Fails  in  the  promis'd  largeness :  checks  and  dis- 
asters 
Grow  in  the  veins  of  actions  highest  rear'd ; 
As  knots,  by  the  conflux  of  meeting  sap, 
Infect  the  sound  pine,  and  divert  his  grain 
Tortive  and  errant  from  his  course  of  growth. 
Nor,  princes,  is  it  matter  new  to  us. 
That  we  come  short  of  our  suppose  so  far. 
That,  after   seven    years'   siege,   yet   Troy   wallj 

stand ; 
Sith  every  action  that  hath  gone  before. 
Whereof  we  have  record,  trial  did  draw 
Bias  and  thwart,  not  answering  the  aim, 
And  that  unbodied  figure  of  the  thought 
That  gave  't   surmised  shape.     Why  then,  you 

princes. 
Do  you  with  cheeks  abash'd  behold  our  wrecks; 
And    think    them    shames,    which    are,    indeed 

nought  else 
But  the  protractive  trials  of  great  Jove, 
To  find  persistive  constancy  in  men  ? 
The  fineness  of  which  metal  is  not  found 
In  fortune's  love ;  for  then,  the  bold  and  coward, 
The  wise  and  fool,  the  artist  and  unread. 
The  hard  and  soft,  seem  all  affin'd  and  kin : 
But,  in  the  wind  and  tempest  of  her  frown, 
Distinction,  with  a  broad  and  powerful  fan. 
Puffing  at  all,  winnows  the  light  away ; 
And  what  hath  mass,  or  matter,  by  itself 
Lies,  rich  in  virtue,  and  unmingled. 

Nest.  With  due  observance  of  thy  godlike  seat, 
Great  Agamemnon,  Nestor  shall  apply 
Thy  latest  words.     In  the  reproof  of  chance 
Lies  the    true   proof  of  men :    The    sea   being 

smooth. 
How  many  shallow  bauble  boats  dare  sail 
Upon  her  patient  breast,  making  their  way 
With  those  of  nobler  bulk  ? 
But  let  the  ruflSan  Boreas  once  enrage 
The  gentle  Thetis,  and,  anon,  behold 
The  strong-ribb'd  bark  through  liquid  mountaint 
cut. 

1107 


ACT   1, 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


8C£»B   m. 


Bounding  between  the  two  moist  elements, 

Like  Perseus'  horse :'   Where  's   then   the  saucy 

boat, 
Whose  weak  untimber'd  sides  but  even  now 
Co-rival'd  greatness  ?  either  to  harbour  fled, 
Or  made  a  toast  for  Neptune.     Even  so 
Doth  valour's  show,  and  valour's  worth,  divide, 
In  storms  of  fortune  :  For,  in  her  ray  and  brigKt- 

ness, 
The  herd  hath  more  annoyance  by  the  brize,'° 
Than  by  the  tiger :  but  when  the  splitting  wind 
Makes  flexible  the  knees  of  knotted  oaks, 
And  flies  fled  under  shade,  Why,  then,  the  thing 

of  courage, 
As  rous'd  with  rage,  with  rage  doth  sympathize, 
And  with  an  accent  turn'd  in  self-same  key, 
Returns  to  chiding  fortune. 

Ulyss.  Agamemnon, — 

Thou  great  commander,  nerve  and  bone  of  Greece, 
Heart  of  our  numbers,  soul  and  only  spirit, 
In  whom  the  tempers  and  the  minds  of  all 
Should  be  shut  up, — hear  what  Ulysses  speaks. 
Besides  the  applause  and  approbation 
The   which, — most    mighty    for    thy    place    and 
sway, —  [To  Aoam. 

And   thou    most   reverend  for  thy  stretch'd-out- 
life, —  [To  Nest. 

I  give  to  both  your  speeches, — which  were  such. 
As  Agamemnon  and  the  hand  of  Greece 
Should  hold  up  high  in  brass ;  and  such  again, 
As  venerable  Nestor,  hatch'd  in  silver, 
Should  with  a  bond  of  air  (strong  as  the  axletree 
On  which  heaven  rides,)  knit  all  the  Greekish 

ears 
To   his   experienced   tongue, — yet   let   it   please 

both, — 
Thou  great, — and  wise, — to  hear  Ulysses  speak. 
Agam.  Speak,  prince  of  Ithaca ;  and  be  't  of 
less  expect 
That  matter  needless,  of  importless  burden, 
Divide  thy  lips ;  than  we  are  confident, 
When  rank  Thersites  opes  his  mastiff  jaws, 
We  shall  hear  music,  wit,  and  oracle. 

Ulyss.    Troy,  yet   upon    his  basis,  had   been 
down, 
And  the  great  Hector's  sword  had  lack'd  a  mas- 
ter. 
But  for  these  instances. 
The  specialty  of  rule  hath  been  neglected  : 
And,  look,  how  many  Grecian  tents  do  stand 
Hollow  upon  this  plain,  so  many  hollow  factions. 
When  that  the  general  is  not  like  the  hive, 
1108 


To  whom  the  foragers  shall  all  repair. 
What  honey  is  expected  ?  Degree  being  vizarded, 
The  unworthiest  shows  as  fairly  in  the  mask. 
The   heavens  themselves,  the  planets,  and  this 

centre," 
Observe  degree,  priority,  and  place, 
Insisture,  course,  proportion,  season,  form, 
OjBBce,  and  custom,  in  all  line  of  order : 
And  therefore  is  the  glorious  planet,  Sol, 
In  noble  eminence  enthron'd  and  spher'd 
Amidst  the  other ;  whose  med'cinable  eye 
Corrects  the  ill  aspects  of  planets  evil, 
And  posts,  like  the  commandment  of  a  king, 
Sans  check,  to  good  and  bad :   But,  when  the 

planets. 
In  evil  mixture,  to  disorder  wander, 
What  plagues,  and  what  portents  ?  what  mutiny! 
What  raging  of  the  sea  ?  shaking  of  earth  ? 
Commotion  in  the  winds  ?  frights,  changes,  hor- 

roi-s. 
Divert  and  crack,  rend  and  deracinate 
The  unity  and  married  calm  of  states 
Quite   from    their   fixure  ?     O,  •  when    degree    is 

shak'd, 
Which  is  the  ladder  of  all  high  designs. 
The  enterprise  is  sick  !  How  could  communities, 
Degrees  in  schools,  and  brotherhoods  in  cities. 
Peaceful  commerce  from  dividable  shores, 
The  priraogenitive  and  due  of  birth, 
Prerogative  of  age,  crowns,  sceptres,  laurels. 
But  by  degree,  stand  in  authentic  place  ? 
Take  but  degree  away,  untune  that  string. 
And,  hark,  what   discord   follows !    each   thing 

meets 
In  mere  oppugnancy  :  The  bounded  waters 
Should  lift  their  bosoms  higher  than  the  shores. 
And  make  a  sop  of  all  this  solid  globe : 
Strength  should  be  lord  of  imbecility. 
And  the  rude  son  should  strike  his  father  dead : 
Force   should    be   right;    or,    rather,   right   and 

wrong, 
(Between  whose  endless  jar  justice  resides,) 
Should  lose  their  names,  and  so  should  justice  too, 
Then  every  thing  includes  itself  in  power, 
Power  into  will,  will  into  appetite ; 
And  appetite,  an  universal  wolf. 
So  doubl}'-  seconded  with  will  and  power. 
Must  make  perforce  an  universal  prey. 
And,  last,  eat  up  himself.     Great  Agamemnon, 
This  chaos,  when  degree  is  suffocate. 
Follows  the  choking. 
And  this  neglection  of  degree  it  is, 


TROILUS  ANI>  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE  ni. 


That  by  a  pace  goes  backward,  with  a  purpose 
It  hath  to  climb.     The  general 's  disdain'd 
By  him  one  step  below ;  he,  by  the  next ; 
That  next,  by  him  beneath  :  so  every  step, 
Exampled  by  the  first  pace  that  is  sick 
Of  his  superior,  grows  to  an  envious  fever 
Of  pale  and  bloodless  emulation: 
And  't  is  this  fever  that  keeps  Troy  on  foot, 
Not  her  own  sinews.     To  end  a  tale  of  length, 
Troy  in  her  weakness  stands,  not  in  her  strength. 
Nest.  Most  wisely  hath  Ulysses  here  discover'd 
The  fever  whereof  all  our  power  is  sick. 

Agam.    The   nature    of    the   sickness    found, 

Ulysses, 
What  is  the  remedy  ? 

Ulyss.    The   great   Achilles, — whom   opinion 

crowns 
The  sinew  and  the  forehand  of  our  host, — 
Having  his  ear  full  of  his  airy  fame. 
Grows  dainty  of  his  worth,  and  in  his  tent 
Lies  mocking  our  designs  :  With  him,  Patroclus, 
Upon  a  lazy  bed  the  livelong  day 
Breaks  scurril  jests ; 

And  with  ridiculous  and  awkward  action 
(Which,  slanderer,  he  imitation  calls,) 
He  pageants  us.     Sometime,  great  Agamemnon, 
Thy  topless  deputation  he  puts  on  ; 
And,  like  a  strutting  player, — whose  conceit 
Lies  in  his  hamstring,  and  doth  think  it  rich 
To  hear  the  wooden  dialogue  and  sound 
'Twixt  his  stretch'd  footing  and  the  scafFoldage, — 
Such  to-be-pitied  and  o'er-wrested  seeming 
i      He  acts  thy  greatness  in  :  and  when  he  speaks, 
'T  is  like  a  chime  a  mending ;  with  terms  un- 

squar'd, 
Which,   from    the    tongue   of    roaring    Typhon 

dropp'd. 
Would  seem  hyperboles.     At  this  fusty  stuff, 
The  large  Achilles,  on  his  press'd  bed  lolling. 
From  his  deep  chest  laughs  out  a  loud  applause ; 
Cries  "  Excellent ! — 't  is  Agamemnon  just. — 
Now   play    me   Nestor ; — hem,   and    stroke   thy 

beard, 
As  he,  being  'drest  to  some  oration." 
That 's  done ; — as  near  as  the  extremest  ends 
Of  parallels  ;  as  like  as  Vulcan  and  his  wife : 
Yet  good  Achilles  still  cries,  "Excellent! 
'T  is  Nestor  right !  Now  play  him  me,  Patroclus, 
Arming  to  answer  in  a  night  alarm." 
And  then,  forsooth,  the  faint  defects  of  age 
Must  be  the  scene  of  mirth  ;  to  cough,  and  spit, 
And  with  a  palsy-fumbling  on  his  gorget, 


Shake  in  afid  out  the  rivet : — and  at  this  sport. 
Sir   Valour   dies ;    cries,    "  O  ! — enough,    Patro 

clus; — 
Or  give  me  ribs  of  steel !     I  shall  split  all 
In  pleasure  of  my  spleen."     And  in  this  fashion, 
All  our  abilities,  gifts,  natures,  shapes, 
Severals  and  generals  of  grace  exact, 
Achievements,  plots,  orders,  preventions. 
Excitements  to  the  field,  or  speech  for  truce, 
Success,  or  loss,  what  is,  or  is  not,  serves 
As  stuff  for  these  two  to  make  paradoxes. 

Nest.  And  in  the  imitation  of  these  twain 
(Whom,  as  Ulysses  says,  opinion  crowns 
With  an  imperial  voice,)  many  are  infect. 
Ajax  is  grown  self-will'd  ;  and  bears  his  head 
In  such  a  rein,  in  full  as  proud  a  place 
As  broad  Achilles  :  keeps  his  tent  like  him ; 
Makes  factious  feasts ;  rails  on  our  state  of  war. 
Bold  as  an  oracle :  and  sets  Thersites 
(A  slave,  whose  gall  coins  slanders  like  a  mint,) 
To  match  us  in  comparisons  with  dirt ; 
To  weaken  and  discredit  our  exposure. 
How  rank  soever  rounded  in  with  danger, 

Ulyss.  They  tax  our  policy,  and  call  it  cow- 
ardice; 
Count  wisdom  as  no  member  of  the  war ; 
Forestall  prescience,  and  esteem  no  act 
But  that  of  hand  :  the  still  and  mental  parts, — 
That  do  contrive  how  many  hands  shall  strike. 
When    fitness    calls   them    on  ;    and    know,   by 

measure 
Of  their  observant  toil,  the  enemies'  weight, — 
Why,  this  hath  not  a  finger's  dignity : 
They  call  this — bed-work,  mappery,  closet-war; 
So  that  the  ram,  that  batters  down  the  wall, 
For  the  great  swing  and  rudeness  o'  his  poize, 
They  place  before  his  hand  that  made  the  engine ; 
Or  those,  that  with  the  fineness  of  their  souls 
By  reason  guide  his  execution. 

Nest.  Let  this  be  granted,  and  Achilles'  horse 
Makes  many  Thetis'  sons.  \Ti'umpet  sounds, 

Agam.  What  trumpet  ?  look,  Menelaus. 

Enter  JEneas. 

Men.  From  Troy. 

Agam.  What  would  you  'fore  our  tent  ? 

jEne.  Is  this 

Great  Agamemnon's  tent,  I  pray  ? 

Agam.  Even  this. 

uEne.  May  one,  that  is  a  herald,  and  a  prince, 
Do  a  fair  message  to  his  kingly  ears  ? 

Agam.  With  surety  stronger  than  Achilles'  arm 

1109 


!l 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENK    lit. 


'Fore  all   the   Greekish  heads,  which   with   one 

voice 
U:ill  Agamemnon  head  and  general. 

^ne.    Fair  leave  and   large   security.     How 
may 
A  stranger  to  those  most  imperial  looks 
Know  them  from  eyes  of  other  mortals  ? 
Agam.  How  ? 

j^m.  Ay; 
I  ask,  that  I  might  waken  reverence, 
And  bid  the  cheek  be  ready  with  a  blush 
Modest  as  morning  when  she  coldly  eyes 
The  youthful  Phoebus : 
Which  is  that  god  in  office,  guiding  men  ? 
Which  is  the  high  and  mighty  Agamemnon  ? 
*  Again.  This  Trojan  scorns  us ;  or  the  men  of 

Troy 
Are  ceremonious  courtiers. 

^ne.  Courtiers  as  free,  as  debonair,  unarm'd, 
As  bending  angels  ;  that 's  their  fome  in  peace ; 
But  when  they  would  seem  soldiers,  they  have 

galls, 
Good    arms,    strong   joints,    true    swords ;    and, 

Jove's  accord, 
Nothing  so  full  of  heart.     But  peace,  .^neas, 
Peace,  Trojan  ;  lay  thy  finger  on  thy  lips ! 
The  worthiness  of  praise  disdains  his  worth. 
If  that  the  prais'd  himself  bring  the  praise  forth  : 
But  what  the  repining  enemy  commends, 
That  breath  fame  follows ;  that  praise,  sole  pure, 
transcends. 
Agam..  Sir,    you    of  Troy,    call   you   yourself 

-^neas  ? 
jEne.  Ay,  Greek,  that  is  my  name. 
Agam.  What 's  your  affair,  I  pray  you  ? 

^ne.    Sir,    pardon ;    't  is    for   Agamemnon's 

ears. 
Agam.  He  hears  nought  privately,  that  comes 

from  Troy. 
jEne.  Nor  I  from  Troy  come  not  to  whisper 
him : 
I  bring  a  trumpet  to  awake  his  ear ; 
To  set  his  sense  on  the  attentive  bent. 
And  then  to  speak. 

Agam.  Speak  frankly  as  the  wind ; 

It  is  not  Agamemnon's  sleeping  hour: 
That  thou  shalt  know,  Trojan,  he  is  awake, 
He  tells  thee  so  himself. 

jEne.  Trumpet,  blow  loud, 

Bend    thy   brass   voice   through   all   these    lazy 

tents ; — 
And  every  Greek  of  mettle,  let  him  know, 
Uio 


What  Troy  means  fairly,  shall  be  spoke  aloud. 

^Trumpet  sounds 
We  have,  great  Agamemnon,  here  in  Troy 
A  prince  call'd  Hector,  (Priam  is  his  father,) 
Who  in  this  dull  and  long-continued  truce 
Is  rusty  grown  ;  he  bade  me  take  a  trumpet, 
And  to  this  purpose  speak.    Kings,  princes,  lords 
If  there  be  one,  among  the  fair'st  of  Greece, 
That  holds  his  honour  higher  than  his  ease ; 
That  seeks  his  praise  more  than  he  fears  his  peril 
That  knows  his  valour,  and  knows  not  his  fear ; 
That  loves  his  mistress  more  than  in  confession. 
(With  truant  vows  to  her  own  lips  he  loves,) 
And  dare  avow  her  beauty  and  her  worth, 
In  other  arms  than  hers, — to  him  this  challenge. 
Hector,  in  view  of  Trojans  and  of  Greeks, 
Shall  make  it  good,  or  do  his  best  to  do  it. 
He  hath  a  lady,  wiser,  fairer,  truer, 
Than  ever  Greek  did  compass  in  his  arms ; 
And  will  to-morrow  with  his  trumpet  call, 
Mid-way  between  your  tents  and  walls  of  Troy, 
To  rouse  a  Grecian  that  is  true  in  love : 
If  any  come,  Hector  shall  honour  him  ; 
If  none,  he  '11  say  in  Troy,  when  he  retires, 
The  Grecian  dames  are  sun-burn'd,  and  not  worth 
The  splinter  of  a  lance.     Even  so  much. 

Agam.    This   shall    be   told    our    lovei-s,    lord 
^$]neas ; 
If  none  of  them  have  soul  in  such  a  kind, 
We  left  them  all  at  home :  But  we  are  soldiers ; 
And  may  that  soldier  a  mere  recreant  prove, 
That  means  not,  hath  not,  or  is  not  in  love  I 
If  then  one  is,  or  hath,  or  means  to  be, 
That  one  meets  Hector;  if  none  else,  I  am  he. 

Nest.  Tell  him  of  Nestor,  one  that  was  a  man 
When  Hector's  grandsire  suck'd  :  he  is  old  now ; 
But,  if  there  be  not  in  our  Grecian  host 
One  noble  man,  that  hath  one  spark  of  fire 
To  answer  for  his  love,  Tell  him  from  me, — 
I  '11  hide  my  silver  beard  in  a  gold  beaver, 
And  in  my  vantbrace  put  this  wither'd  brawn ; 
And,  meeting  him,  will  tell  him,  That  my  lady 
Was  fairer  than  his  grandame,  and  as  chaste 
As  may  be  in  the  world  :  His  youth  in  flood, 
I  '11  prove  this  truth  with  my  three  drops  of  blood. 

uEne.  Now   heavens   forbid   such   scarcity  o{ 
youth ! 

Ulyss.  Amen. 

Agam.  Fair  lord  .^Eneas,  let  me  touch   voni 
hand ; 
To  our  pavilion  shall  I  lead  you,  sir. 
Achilles  shall  have  word  of  this  intent ; 


I  _ 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SC3KS  m. 


So  shall  each  lord  of  Greece,  from  tent  to  tent : 
Yourself  shall  feast  with  us  before  you  go, 
And  find  the  welcome  of  a  noble  foe. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Ulyss.  and  Nkst. 

Ulyss.  Nestor, 

Nest.  What  says  Ulysses  ? 

Ulyss.  I  have  a  young  conception  in  my  brain, 
Be  you  my  time  to  bring  it  to  some  shape. 

Nest.  What  is  't  ? 

Ulyss.  This  't  is : 
Blunt  wedges  rive  hard  knots :  The  seeded  pride 
That  hath  to  this  maturity  blown  up 
In  rank  Achilles,  must  or  now  be  cropp'd, 
Or,  shedding,  breed  a  nursery  of  like  evil, 
To  overbulk  us  all. 

Nest.  Well,  and  how  ? 

Ulyss.  This  challenge  that  the  gallant  Hector 
sends, 
However  it  is  spread  in  general  name, 
Relates  in  purpose  only  to  Achilles. 

Nest.  The  purpose  is  perspicuous  even  as  sub- 
stance, 
Whose  grossness  little  characters  sum  up : 
And,  in  the  publication,  make  no  strain, 
But  that  Achilles,  were  his  brain  as  barren 
As  banks  of  Libya, — though,  Apollo  knows, 
'T  is  dry  enough, — will  with  great  speed  of  judg- 
ment, 
A.y,  with  celerity,  find  Hector's  purpose 
Pointing  on  him. 

Ulyss.  And  wake  him  to  the  answer,  think  you  ? 

Nest.  Yes, 

It  is  most  meet :  Whom  may  you  else  oppose, 
Til  at  can  from  Hector  bring  those  honours  oflf, 
If  not  Achilles  ?  Though  't  be  a  sportful  combat. 
Yet  in  the  trial  much  opinion  dwells ; 
For  here  the  Trojans  taste  our  dear'st  repute 
With  their  fin'st  palate:  And  trust  to  me,  Ulysses, 
Our  imputation  shall  be  oddly  pois'd 
In  this  wild  action  :  for  the  success, 
Although  particular,  shall  give  a  scantling 
Of  good  or  bad  unto  the  general ; 
And  in  such  indexes,  although  small  pricks 
To  their  subsequent  volumes,  there  is  seen 
The  baby-figure  of  the  giant  mass 
Of  things  to  come  at  large.     It  is  suppos'd, 
He,  that  meets  Hector,  issues  from  our  choice : 
A.ud  choice,  being  mutual  act  of  all  our  souls, 


Makes  merit  her  election  ;  and  Joth  boil. 

As  't  were  from  forth  us  all,  a  man  distill'd 

Out  of  our  virtues ;  Who  miscarrying, 

What  heart  receives   from  hence  a  conquering 

part. 
To  steel  a  strong  opinion  to  themselves  ? 
Which  entertain'd,  limbs  are  his  instruments. 
In  no  less  working,  than  are  swords  and  bows 
'Z)irective  by  the  limbs. 

Ulyss.  Give  pardon  to  my  speech  ; — 
Therefore  't  is  meet,  Achilles  meet  not  Hector. 
Let  us,  like  merchants,  show  our  foulest  wares, 
And  think,  perchance,  they  '11  sell ;  if  not. 
The  lustre  of  the  better  shall  exceed. 
By  showing  the  worse  first.     Do  not  consent, 
That  ever  Hector  and  Achilles  meet ; 
For  both  our  honour  and  our  shame,  in  this. 
Are  dogg'd  with  two  strange  followers. 

Nest.  I  see  them  not  with  my  old  eyes ;  what 

are  they  ? 
Ulyss.  What  glory  our  Achilles  shares  from 

Hector, 
Were  he  not  proud,  we  all  should  share  with 

him; 
But  he  already  is  too  insolent ; 
And  we  were  better  parch  in  Afric  sun, 
Than  in  the  pride  and  salt  scorn  of  his  eyes. 
Should  he  'scape  Hector  fair :  If  he  were  foil'd, 
Why,  then  we  did  our  main  opinion  crush 
In  taint  of  our  best  man.     No,  make  a  lottery  ; 
And,  by  device,  let  blockish  Ajax'^  draw 
The  sort  to  fight  with  Hector :  Among  ourselves, 
Give  him  allowance  for  the  better  man, 
For  that  will  physic  the  great  Myrmidon, 
Who  broils  in  loud  applause ;  and  make  him  fall 
His  crest,  that  prouder  than  blue  Iris  bends. 
If  the  dull  brainless  Ajax  come  safe  off, 
We  '11  dress  him  up  in  voices :  If  he  fail, 
Yet  go  we  under  our  opinion  still 
That  we  have  better  men.     But,  hit  or  miss. 
Our  project's  life  this  shape  of  sense  assumes, — 
Ajax,  employ'd,  plucks  down  Achilles'  plumes. 

Nest.  Ulysses, 
Now  I  begin  to  relish  thy  advice ; 
And  I  will  give  a  taste  of  it  forthwith 
To  Agamemnon  :  go  we  to  him  straight 
Two  curs  shall  tame  each  other  :  Pride  alone 
Must  tarre  the  mastifll^s  on,  as  't  were  their  bone. 

[JExeunt 
nil 


ACT   II. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I. — Another  Part  of  the  Grecian  Camp. 

Sinter  Ajax  and  Thersiteb. 
Ajax.  Thersites, 


Ther.  Agamemnon — how  if  he  had  boils? 
full,  all  over,  generally  ? 

Ajax.  Thersites, 

Ther,  And  those  boils  did  run  ? — Say  so, — did 
not  the  general  run  then  ?  were  not  that  a  botchy 
core? 

Ajax.  Dog, 

Ther.  Then  would  come  some  matter  from  him ; 
I  see  none  now. 

Ajax.  Thou  bitch-wolf's  son,  canst  thou  not 
hear  ?  Feel  then.  [Strikes  him. 

Ther.  The  plague  of  Greece  upon  thee,"  thou 
mongrel  beef-witted  lord ! 

Ajax.  Speak  then,  thou  vinew'dest  leaven, 
speak  :  I  will  beat  thee  into  handsomeness. 

Ther.  I  shall  sooner  rail  thee  into  wit  and  holi- 
ness :  but,  I  think,  thy  horse  will  sooner  con  an 
oration,  than  thou  learn  a  prayer  without  book. 
Thou  canst  strike,  canst  thou  ?  a  red  murrain  o' 
ihy  jade's  tricks ! 

Ajax.  Toads-stool,  learn  me  the  proclamation. 

Ther.  Dost  thou  think,  I  have  no  sense,  thou 
strikest  me  thus  ? 

Ajax.  The  proclamation, — 

Ther.  Thou  art  proclaimed  a  fool,  I  think. 

Ajax.  Do  not,  porcupine,  do  not;  my  fingers 
itch. 

Ther.  I  would,  thou  didst  itch  from  head  to 
foot,  and  I  had  the  scratching  of  thee ;  I  would 
make  thee  the  loathsomest  scab  in  Greece.  When 
thou  art  forth  in  the  incursions,  thou  strikest  as 
slow  as  another. 

Ajax.  I  say,  the  proclamation, — 

Ther.  Thou  grumblest  and  railest  every  hour 
on  Achilles ;  and  thou  art  as  full  of  envy  at  his 
greatness,  as  Cerberus  is  at  Proserpina's  beaaty, 
ay,  that  thou  barkest  at  him. 

Ajax.  Mistress  Thersites ! 

Ther.  Thou  shouldst  strike  him. 
1112 


Ajax.  CobloafI 

Ther.  He  would  pun  thee  into  shivers  with  his 
fist,  as  a  sailor  breaks  a  biscuit. 

Ajax.  You  whoreson  cur !  [Beating  him 

Ther.  Do,  do. 

Ajax.  Thou  stool  for  a  witch  ! 

Ther.  Ay,  do,  do ;  thou  sodden-witted  lord  ! 
thou  hast  no  more  brain  than  I  have  in  mine  el- 
bows ;  an  assinego'*  may  tutor  thee  :  Thou  scurvy 
valiant  ass  !  thou  art  here  put  to  thrash  Trojans 
and  thou  art  bought  and  sold  among  those  of  any 
wit,  like  a  Barbarian  slave.  If  thou  use  to  beat 
me,  I  will  begin  at  thy  heel,  and  tell  what  thou 
art  by  inches,  thou  thing  of  no  bowels,  thou! 

Ajax.  You  dog ! 

Ther.  You  scurvy  lord ! 

Ajax.  You  cur  !  [Beating  him 

Ther.  Mars  his  idiot !  do,  rudeness;  do,  camel 
do,  do. 

Enter  Achilles  and  Patroolus. 

Achil.  Why,  how  now,  Ajax  ?    wherefore   do 
you  thus  ? 
How  now,  Thersites  ?  what's  the  matter,  man? 

Ther.  You  see  him  there,  do  you  ? 

Achil.  Ay  ;  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Ther.  Nay,  look  upon  him. 

Achil.  So  I  do  :  What's  the  matter? 

Ther.  Nay,  but  regard  him  well. 

Achil.  Well,  why  I  do  so, 

Ther.  But  yet  you  look  not  well  upon  him  :  for, 
whosoever  you  take  him  to  be,  he  is  Ajax. 

Achil.  I  know  that,  fool. 

Ther.  Ay,  but  that  fool  knows  not  himself. 

Ajax.  Therefore  I  beat  thee. 

Ther.  Lo,  lo,  lo,  lo,  what  modicums  of  wit  he 
utters !  his  evasions  have  ears  thus  long.  I  have 
bobbed  his  brain,  more  than  he  has  beat  my 
bones :  I  will  buy  nine  sparrows  for  a  penny,  and 
his  pia  mater  is  not  worth  the  ninth  part  of  a 
sparrow.  This  lord,  Achilles,  Ajax, — who  weara 
his  wit  in  his  belly,  and  his  guts  in  his  head, — 
I  '11  tell  you  what  I  say  of  him. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCEKE    II. 


Achil.  What? 

Ther.  I  say,  this  Ajax 

Achil.  Nay,  good  Ajax. 

[Ajax  ojfers  to  strike  him,  Achil.  interposes. 

Ther.  Has  not  so  much  wit 

Achil.  Nay,  I  must  hold  you. 

Ther.  As  will  stop  the  eye  of  Helen's  needle, 
for  whom  he  comes  to  fight. 

Achil.  Peace,  fool ! 

Ther.  I  would  have  peace  and  quietness,  but 
the  fool  will  not :  he  there ;  that  he ;  look  you 
there. 

Ajax.  O  thou  damned  cur  !  I  shall 

Achil.  Will  you  set  your  wit  to  a  fool's  ? 

Ther.  No,  I  warrant  you ;  for  a  fool's  will 
shame  it. 

Patr.  Good  words,  Thersites. 

Achil.  What 's  the  quarrel  ? 

Ajax.  I  bade  the  vile  owl,  go  learn  me  the 
tenor  of  the  proclamation,  and  he  rails  upon  me. 

Ther.  I  serve  thee  not. 

Ajax.  Well,  go  to,  go  to. 

Ther.  I  serve  here  voluntary. 

Achil.  Your  last  service  was  sufferance,  't  was 
not  voluntary ;  no  man  is  beaten  voluntary ; 
Ajax  WHS  here  the  voluntary,  and  you  as  under 
an  impress. 

Ther.  Even  so  ? — a  great  deal  of  your  wit  too 
lies  in  your  sinews,  or  else  there  be  liars.  Hector 
shall  have  a  great  catch,  if  he  knock  out  either  of 
your  brains ;  'a  were  as  good  crack  a  fusty  uut 
with  no  kernel. 

Achil.  What,  with  me  too,  Thersites  ? 

Ther.  There  's  Ulysses,  and  old  Nestor, — whose 
wit  was  mouldy  ere  your  grandsires  had  nails  on 
their  toes, — yoke  you  like  draught  oxen,  and  make 
you  plough  up  the  wars. 

Achil.  What,  what  ? 

Ther.  Yes,  good  sooth  :  To,  Achilles!  to,  Ajax! 
to! 

Ajax.  I  shall  cut  out  your  tongue. 

l^her.  'T  is  no  matter ;  I  shall  speak  as  much 
as  thou,  afterwards. 

I*atr.  No  more  words,  Thersites ;  peace. 

Ther.  I  will  hold  my  peace  when  Achilles'  brach 
bids  me,  shall  I  ? 

Achil.  There  's  for  you,  Patroclus. 

Ther.  I  will  see  you  hanged,  like  clotpoles,  ere 
I  come  any  more  to  yourteuts;  I  will  keep  where 
diere  is  wit  stirring,  and  leave  the  faction  of  fools. 

[£xit. 

Fatr.  A  good  riddance. 


Achil.  Marry,  this,  sir,  is  proclaimed  through 
all  our  host : 
That  Hector,  by  the  first  hour  of  the  sun. 
Will,  with  a  trumpet,  'twixt  our  tents  and  Troy, 
To-morrow  morning  call  some  knight  to  arras, 
That  hath  a  stomach ;  and  such  a  one,  that  dare 
Maintain — I  know  not  what;  't  is  trash  :  Farewell. 
Ajax.  Farewell.     Who  shall  answer  him  ? 
Achil.  I  know  not,  it  is  put  to  lottery  ;  other- 
wise. 
He  knew  his  man. 

Ajax.  O,  meaning  you  : — I  '11  go  learn   more 
of  it.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  H.— Troy.    A  Room  in  Priam's  Palace. 

Enter  Priam,  Hector,  Troilus,  Paris,  and 
Helenus. 

Pri.  After  so  many  hours,  lives,  speeches  spent, 
Thus  once  again  says  Nestor  from  the  Greeks ; 
"  Deliver  Helen,  and  all  damage  else — 
As  honour,  loss  of  time,  travel,  expense. 
Wounds,  friends,  and  what  else  dear  that  is  con- 

sura'd 
In  hot  digestion  of  this  cormorant  war, — 
Shall  be  struck  off:" — Hector,  what  say  you  to  'f? 
Hect.  Though  no  man  lesser  fears  the  Greeks 
than  I, 
As  far  as  toucheth  my  particular,  yet. 
Dread  Priam, 

There  is  no  lady  of  more  softer  bowels, 
More  spungy  to  suck  in  the  sense  of  fear. 
More  ready  to  cry  out — ^'  Who  knows  what  fol- 
lows ?" 
Than  Hector  is:  The  wound  of  peace  is  surety, 
Surety  secure ;  but  modest  doubt  is  call'd 
The  beacon  of  the  wise,  the  tent  that  searches 
To  the  bottom  of  the  worst.     Let  Helen  go  : 
Since  the  first  sword  was  drawn  about  this  question. 
Every  tithe  soul,  'mongst  many  thousand  dismes,'* 
Hath  been  as  dear  as  Helen  ;  I  mean,  of  ours  : 
If  we  have  lost  so  many  tenths  of  ours. 
To  guard  a  thing  not  ours ;  not  worth  to  us, 
Had  it  our  name,  the  value  of  one  ten  ; 
What  merit's  in  that  reason,  which  denies 
The  yielding  of  her  up  ? 

Tro.  Fie,  fie,  my  brother ! 

Weigh  you  the  worth  and  honour  of  a  king, 
So  great  as  our  dread  father,  in  a  scale 
Of  common  ounces  ?  will  you  with  counters  sum 
The  past-proportion  of  his  infinite  ? 
And  buckle-in  a  waist  most  fathomless, 

1118 


ACT    11. 


TltOILUS  AND  CPwESSIDA. 


With  spans  and  inches  so  diminutive 
As  fears  and  reasons  ?  fie,  for  godly  shame  ! 
Hel.  No  marvel,  tliough  you  bite  so  sharp  at 
reasons, 
You  are  so  empty  of  them.    Should  not  our  father 
Bear  the  great  sway  of  his  afiairs  with  reasons. 
Because  your  speech  hath  none,  that  tells  him  so? 
Tro.  You  are  for  dreams  and  slumbers,  brother 
priest, 
You  fur  your  gloves  with  reason.     Here  are  your 

reasons : 
You  know,  an  enemy  intends  you  harm  ; 
You  know,  a  sword  employ'd  is  perilous, 
And  reason  flies  the  object  of  all  harm  : 
Who  marvels  then,  when  Helenus  beholds 
A  Grecian  and  his  sword,  if  he  do  set 
The  very  wings  of  reason  to  his  heels ; 
And  fly  like  chidden  Mercury  from  Jove, 
Or  like   a  star   dis-orb'd  ? — Nay,   if  we  talk  of 

reason, 
Let 's  shut  our  gates,  and  sleep  :    Manhood  and 

honour 
Should  have  hare  hearts,  would  they  but  fat  their 

thoughts 
With  this  cramm'd  reason :  reason  and  respect 
Makes  livers  pale,  and  lustihood  deject. 

Hect.  Brother,  she  is  not  worth  what  she  doth 
cost 
The  holding. 

Tro.  What  is  aught,  but  as  't  is  valued  ? 

Hect.  But  value  dwells  not  in  particular  will ; 
It  holds  his  estimate  and  dignity 
As  well  wherein  't  is  pr^ious  of  itself 
As  in  the  prizer :  't  is  mad  idolatry. 
To  make  the  service  greater  than  the  god ; 
And  the  will  dotes,  that  is  inclinable 
To  what  infectiously  itself  aftects. 
Without  some  image  of  the  affected  merit. 

Tro.  I  take  to-day  a  wife,  and  my  election 
Is  led  on  in  the  conduct  of  my  will ; 
My  will  enkindled  by  mine  eyes  and  ears, 
Two  traded  pilots  'twixt  the  dangerous  shores 
Of  will  and  judgment :  How  may  I  avoid. 
Although  my  will  distaste  what  it  elected, 
The  wife  I  chose  ?  there  can  be  no  evasion 
To  blench  from  this,  and  to  stand  firm  by  honour  : 
W^o  turn  not  back  the  silks  upon  the  merchant, 
When  we  have  soil'd  them  ;  nor  the   remainder 

viands 
Wo  do  not  throw  in  unrespective  sieve, 
Because  we  now  are  full.     It  was  thought  meet, 
Paris  should  do  some  vengeance  on  the  Greeks  : 
IIU 


Your  breath  with  full  consent  bellied  his  sails; 
The  seas  and  winds  (old  wranglers)  took  a  truce, 
And  did  him  service  :  he  touch'd  the  ports  desir'd  ; 
And,  for  an  old  aunt,'®  whom  the  Greeks  held  cap- 
tive. 
He  brought  a  Grecian  queen,  whose  youth  and 

freshness 
Wrinkles  Apollo's,  and  makes  pale  the  morning. 
Why  keep  we  her  ?  the  Grecians  keep  our  aunt : 
Is  she  worth  keeping?  why,  she  is  a  pearl. 
Whose    price   hath    launch'd    above  a  thousand 

ships. 
And  turn'd  crown'd  kings  to  merchants. 
If  you  '11  avouch,  't  was  wisdom  Paris  went, 
(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  cry'd — "  Go,  go,") 
If  you  '11  confess,  he  brought  hoitie  noble  prize, 
(As  you  must  needs,  for  you  all  clapp'd  your 

hands. 
And  cry'd — "  Inestimable  !")  why  do  you  now 
The  issue  of  your  proper  wisdoms  rate  ; 
And  do  a  deed  that  fortune  never  did. 
Beggar  the  estimation  which  you  priz'd 
Richer  than  sea  and  land  ?     0  theft  most  base ; 
That  we  have  stolen  what  we  do  fear  to  keep ! 
But,  thieves,  unwortiiy  of  a  thing  so  stolen, 
That  in  their  country  did  them  that  disgrace, 
We  fear  to  warrant  in  our  native  place  1 

Cas.  [  Within.^  Cry,  Trojans,  cry  ! 

Pri.  What  noise?  what  shriek  is  this ! 

Tro.  'T  is  our  mad  sister,  I  do  know  her  voic«. 

Cas.  [  Within.^  Cry,  Trojans  ! 

Hect.  It  is  Cassandra. 

Enter  Cassandra,  raving. 

Cas.  Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  lend  me  ten  thousand 
eyes, 
And  I  will  fill  them  with  prophetic  tears. 

Hect.  Peace,  sister,  peace. 

Cas.  Virgins  and  boys,  raid-age  and  wrinkled 
elders, 
Soft  infancy,  that  nothing  canst  but  cry. 
Add  to  my  clamours !  let  us  pay  betimes 
A  moiety  of  that  mass  of  moan  to  come. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  practise  your  eyes  with  tears  1 
Troy  must  not  be,  nor  goodly  Ilion  stand  ; 
Our  fire-brand  brother,"  Paris,  burns  us  all. 
Cry,  Trojans,  cry  !  a  Helen,  and  a  woe  : 
Cry,  cry  !  Troy  burns,  or  else  let  Helen  go,     [JExit. 

Hect.  Now,  youthful  Troiius,  do  not  these  high 
strains 
Of  divination  in  our  sister  work 
Some  t  )ui:hes  of  remorse  ?  or  is  your  blood 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENK    H. 


So  madly  hot,  that  no  discourse  of  reason, 
Nor  fear  of  bad  success  in  a  bad  cause. 
Can  qualify  the  same  ? 

Tro.  Why,  brother  Hector, 

We  may  not  think  the  justness  of  each  act 
Such  and  no  other  than  event  doth  form  it; 
Nor  once  deject  the  courage  of  our  minds, 
Because  Cassandra's  mad  ;  her  brain-sick  raptures 
Cannot  distaste  the  goodness  of  a  quarrel. 
Which  hath  our  several  honours  all  engag'd 
To  make  it  gracious.     For  my  private  part, 
I  am  no  more  touch'd  than  all  Priam's  sons  : 
And  Jove  forbid,  there  should  be  done  amongst  us 
Such  things  as  might  offend  the  weakest  spleen 
To  fight  for  and  maintain  ! 

Par.  Else  might  the  world  convince  of  levity 
As  well  my  undertakings,  as  your  counsels : 
But  I  attest  the  gods,  your  full  consent 
Gave  wings  to  my  propension,  and  cut  off 
All  fears  attending  on  so  dire  a  project. 
For  what,  alas,  can  these  my  single  arms  ? 
What  propugnation  is  in  one  man's  valour, 
To  stand  the  push  and  enmity  of  those 
This  quarrel  would  excite  ?     Yet,  I  protest, 
Were  I  alone  to  pass  the  difficulties, 
And  had  as  ample  power  as  I  have  will, 
Paris  should  ne'er  retract  what  he  hath  done, 
Xor  faint  in  the  pursuit. 

Pri.  Paris,  you  speak 

Like  one  besotted  on  your  sweet  delights  : 
You  have  the  honey  still,  but  these  the  gall ; 
So  to  be  valiant,  is  no  praise  at  all. 

Par.  Sir,  I  propose  not  merely  to  myself 
The  pleasures  such  a  beauty  brings  with  it ; 
But  I  would  have  the  soil  of  her  fair  rape'" 
Wip'd  off,  in  honourable  keeping  her. 
What  treason  were  it  to  the  ransack'd  queen. 
Disgrace  to  your  great  worths,  and  shame  to  me. 
Now  to  deliver  her  possession  up. 
On  terms  of  base  compulsion  ?     Can  it  be. 
That  50  degenerate  a  strain  as  this, 
Should  once  set  footing  in  your  generous  bosoms  ? 
There's  not  the  meanest  spirit  on  our  party, 
Without  a  heart  to  dare,  or  sword  to  draw, 
When  Helen  is  defended ;  nor  none  so  noble. 
Whose  life  were  ill  bestow'd,  or  death  unfam'd. 
Where  Helen  is  the  subject :  then,  I  say. 
Well  may  we  fight  for  her,  whom,  we  know  well, 
The  world's  large  spaces  cannot  parallel. 

Hcct.  Paris,  and  Troilus,  you  have  both  said 
well ; 
And  on  the  cause  and  question  now  in  hand 


Have  gloz'd, — but  superficially ;  not  much 

Unlike  young  men,  whom  Aristotle''  thought 

Unfit  to  hear  moral  philosophy : 

The  reasons,  you  allege,  do  more  conduce 

To  the  hot  passion  of  distemper'd  blood. 

Than  to  make  up  a  free  determination 

'Twixt  right  and  wrong:   For  pleasure  and  re 

venge 
Have  ears  more  deaf  than  adders  to  the  voice 
Of  any  true  decision.     Nature  craves. 
All  dues  be  render'd  to  their  owners :  Now 
What  nearer  debt  in  all  humanity. 
Than  wife  is  to  the  husband  ?  if  this  law 
Of  nature  be  corrupted  through  affection  ; 
And  that  great  minds,  of  partial  indulgence 
To  their  benumbed  wills,  resist  the  same ; 
There  is  a  law  in  each  well-order'd  nation. 
To  curb  those  raging  appetites  that  are 
Most  disobedient  and  refractory. 
If  Helen  then  be  wife  to  Sparta's  king, — 
As  it  is  known  she  is, — these  moral  laws 
Of  nature,  and  of  nations,  speak  aloud 
To  have  her  back  return'd  :  Thus  to  persist 
In  doing  wrong,  extenuates  not  vvronsf, 
But  makes  it  much  more  heavy.    Hector's  opinion 
Is  this,  in  way  of  truth  :  yet,  ne'ertheless. 
My  spritely  brethren,  I  propend  to  you 
In  resolution  to  keep  Helen  still; 
For  't  is  a  cause  that  hath  no  mean  dependance 
Upon  our  joint  and  several  dignities. 

Tro.  Why,  there  you  touch'd  the  life  of  our 
design  : 
Were  it  not  glory  that  we  more  affected 
Than  the  performance  of  our  heaving  spleens. 
I  would  not  wish  a  drop  of  Trojan  blood 
Spent  more  in  her  defence.     But,  worthy  Hector, 
She  is  a  theme  of  honour  and  renown  ; 
A  spur  to  valiant  and  magnanimous  deeds  ; 
Whose  present  courage  may  beat  down  our  foes, 
And  fame,  in  time  to  come,  canonize  us : 
For,  I  presume,  brave  Hector  would  not  lose 
So  rich  advantage  of  a  promis'd  glory. 
As  smiles  upon  the  forehead  of  this  action, 
For  the  wide  world's  revenue. 

Hect.  I  am  yours, 

You  valiant  offspring  of  great  Priamus. — 
I  have  a  roisting  challenge  sent  amongst 
The  dull  and  factious  nobles  of  the  Greeks, 
Will  strike  amazement  to  their  drowsy  spirits: 
I  was  advertis'd,  their  great  general  slept, 
Whilst  emulation  in  the  army  crept ; 
This,  I  presume,  will  wake  him.  \Exeunt 

1]16 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE   in. 


SCENE  III. — The  Grecian  Camp.     Before 
Achilles'  Tent. 

Enter  Thersites. 

Ther.  How  now,  Thersites?  what,  lost  in  the 
labyrinth  of  thy  fury?  Shall  the  elephant  Ajax 
carry  it  thus  ?  he  bents  me,  and  I  rail  at  him :  0 
worthy  satisfaction !  'would,  it  were  otherwise ; 
that  I  could  beat  him,  whilst  he  railed  at  me : 
'Sfoot,  I  '11  learn  to  conjure  and  raise  devils,  but 
I'll  see  some  issue  of  my  spiteful  execrations. 
Then  there's  Achilles, — a  rare  engineer.  If  Troy 
be  not  taken  till  these  two  undermine  it,  the  walls 
will  stand  till  they  fall  of  themselves.  0  thou 
great  thunder-darter  of  Olympus,  forget  that  thou 
art  Jove  the  king  of  gods  ;  and,  Mercury,  lose  all 
the  serpentine  craft  of  thy  Caduceus ;  if  ye  take 
not  that  little  little  less-than-little  wit  from  them 
that  they  have !  which  short-armed  ignorance 
itself  knows  is  so  abundant  scarce,  it  will  not  in 
circumvention  deliver  a  fly  from  a  spider,  without 
drawing  their  massy  irons,  and  cutting  the  web. 
After  this,  the  vengeance  on  the  whole  camp!  or, 
rather,  the  boneache !  for  that,  methinks,  is  the 
curse  dependant  on  those  that  war  for  a  placket. 
I  have  said  my  prayers ;  and  devil,  envy,  say 
Amen.     What,  ho  !  my  lord  Achilles ! 

Enter  Patroclus. 

Patr.  Who  's  there  ?  Thersites  ?  Good  Thersi- 
tes, come  in  and  rail. 

Ther.  If  I  could  have  remembered  a  gilt  coun- 
terfeit, thou  wouldest  not  have  slipped  out  of  my 
contemplation  ;  but  it  is  no  matter :  Thyself  upon 
thyself!  The  common  curse  of  mankind,  folly 
and  ignorance,  be  thine  in  great  revenue !  heaven 
bless  thee  from  a  tutor,  and  discipline  come  not 
near  thee !  Let  thy  blood  be  thy  direction  till 
thy  death  !  then  if  she,  that  lays  thee  out,  says — 
thou  art  a  fair  corse,  I  '11  be  sworn  and  sworn 
•il)on  't,  she  never  shrouded  any  but  lazars.  Amen. 
Where's  Achilles? 

Patr.  What,  art  thou  devout?  wast  thou  in 
prayer  ? 

Ther.  Ay  :  The  heavens  hear  me  I 

Enter  Achilles, 

Achil.  Who  's  there  ? 
Patr.  Thersites,  my  lord. 
Achil.  Where,  where  ? — Art  thou  come  ?  Why, 
my  cheese,  my  digestion,  why  hast  thou  not  served 
lllfi 


thyself  in  to  my  table  so  many  meals  ?     Come 
what 's  Agamemnon  ? 

Ther.  Thy  commander,  Achilles  :  Then  tell  me, 
Patroclus,  what 's  Achilles? 

Patr,  Thy  lord,  Thersites  :  Then  tell  me,  I  pray 
thee,  what 's  thyself? 

Ther.  Thy  knower,  Patroclus:  Then  tell  me, 
Patroclus,  what  art  thou  ? 

Patr.  Thou  mayest  tell,  that  knowest. 

Achil.  O,  tell,  tell. 

Ther.  I'll  decline  the  whole  question.  Aga 
memnon  commands  Achilles ;  Achilles  is  my  lord  ; 
I  am  Patroclus'  knower ;  and  Patroclus  is  a  fool 

Patr.  You  rascal ! 

Ther.  Peace,  fool ;  I  have  not  done. 

Achil.  He  is  a  privileged  man. — Proceed,  Ther- 
sites. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool ;  Achilles  is  a  fool ; 
Thersites  is  a  fool ;  and,  as  aforesaid,  Patroclus  is 
a  fool. 

Achil.  Derive  this;  come. 

Ther.  Agamemnon  is  a  fool  to  offer  to  com- 
mand Achilles;  Achilles  is  a  fool  to  be  coramanded 
of  Agamemnon  ;  Thersites  is  a  fool  to  serve  such 
a  fool ;  and  Patroclus  is  a  fool  positive. 

Patr.  Why  am  I  a  fool  ? 

Ther.  Make  that  demand  of  the  prover.*" — It 
suffices  me,  thou  art.     Look  you,  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Agamemnon,  Ulysses,  Nestor,  Diomedes, 
and  Ajax. 

Achil.  Patroclus,  I  '11  speak  with  nobody : — 
Come  in  with  me,  Thersites.  [^Exit. 

Ther.  Here  is  such  patchery,  such  juggling, 
and  such  knavery  !  all  the  argument  is,  a  cuckold, 
and  a  whore ;  a  good  quarrel,  to  draw  emulous 
factions,  and  bleed  to  death  upon.  Now  the  dry 
serpigo  on  the  subject !  and  war,  and  lechery, 
confound  all  I  [Exit. 

Agam.  Where  is  Achilles  ? 

Patr.  Within  his   tent ;    but  ill-dispos'd,   my 
lord. 

Agam.  Let  it  be  known  to  him,  that  we  ar^ 
here. 
We  sent  our  messengers ;  and  we  lay  by 
Our  appertainments,  visiting  of  him  : 
Let  him  be  told  so ;  lest,  perchance,  he  think 
We  dare  not  move  the  question  of  our  place. 
Or  know  not  what  we  are. 

Patr.  I  shall  say  so  to  him.  [Exit. 

Ulyss.  We  saw  him  at  the  opening  of  his  tent  ; 
He  is  not  sick. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


scE^E  in. 


Ajax.  Yes,  lion-sick,  sick  of  proud  heart :  you 
may  call  it  melancholy,  if  you  will  favour  the 
man ;  but,  by  my  head,  't  is  pride :  But  why, 
why  ?  let  him  show  us  a  cause.— A  word,  my 
lord.  \  Takes  Agam.  aside. 

Nest.  What  moves  Ajax  thus  to  bay  at  him  ? 

Ulyss.  Achilles  bath  inveigled  his  fool  from 
him. 

Nest.  Who?  Thersites? 

Ulyss.  He. 

Ne.Ht.  Then  will  Ajax  lack  matter,  if  he  have 
lost  his  argument. 

Ulyss.  No  you  see,  he  is  his  argument,  that 
has  his  argument ;  Achilles. 

Nest.  All  the  better ;  their  fraction  is  more  our 
wish,  than  their  faction :  But  it  was  a  strong 
composure,  a  fool  could  disunite. 

Ulyss.  The  amity,  that  wisdom  knits  not,  folly 
may  easily  untie.     Here  comes  Patroclus. 

Re-enter  Patroclus. 

Nest.  No  Achilles  with  him. 

Ulyss.  The  elephant  hath  joints,  but  none  for 
courtesy  :  his  legs  are  legs  for  necessity,  not  for 
flexure. 

Patr.  Achilles  bids  me  say — he  is  much  sorry. 
If  any  thing  more  than  your  sport  and  pleasure 
Did  move  your  greatness,  and  this  noble  state. 
To  call  upon  him :  he  hopes,  it  is  no  other. 
But,  for  your  health  and  your  digestion  sake, 
An  after-dinner's  breath. 

Agam.  Hear  you,  Patroclus  ; — 

We  are  too  well  acquainted  with  these  answers: 
But  his  evasion,  wing'd  thus  swift  with  scorn. 
Cannot  outfly  our  apprehensions. 
Much  attribute  he  hath  ;  and  much  the  reason 
Why  we  ascribe  it  to  him :  yet  all  his  virtues, — 
Not  virtuously  on  his  own  part  beheld, — 
Do,  in  our  eyes,  begin  to  lose  their  gloss ; 
Yea,  like  fair  fruit  in  an  unwholesome  dish. 
Are  like  to  rot  untasted.     Go  and  tell  him. 
We  come  to  speak  with  him :  and  you  shall  not 

sin,   . 
If  you  do  say — we  think  him  over-proud, 
And  under-honest;  in  self-assumption  greater. 
Than  in  the  note  of  judgment :  and  worthier  than 

himself 
Here  tend  the  savage  strangeness  he  puts  on ; 
Disguise  the  holy  strength  of  their  command, 
And  underwrite  in  an  observing  kind 
His  humorous  predominance ;  yea,  watch 
His  pettish  lunes,  his  ebbs,  his  flows,  as  if 


The  passage  and  whole  carriage  of  this  action 
Rode  on  his  tide.     Go,  tell  him  this ;  and  add, 
That,  if  he  overbold  his  price  so  much. 
We  'II  none  of  him ;  but  let  him  like  nn  engine 
Not  portable,  lie  under  this  report — 
Bring  action  hither,  this  cannot  go  to  war: 
A  stirring  dwarf  we  do  allowance  give 
Before  a  sleeping  giant : — Tell  him  so. 

Patr.  I  shall ;  and  bring  his  answer  presently. 

[Exit. 

Agam.  In  second  voice  we  '11  not  be  satisfied, 
We  come  to  speak  with  him. — Ulysses,  enter. 

\Exit  Ulyss, 

Ajax.  What  is  he  more  than  another? 

Agam.  No  more  than  what  he  thinks  he  is. 

Ajax.  Is  he  so  much  ?  Do  you  not  think,  he 
thinks  himself  a  better  man  than  I  am  ? 

Agam.  No  question. 

Ajax.  Will  you  subscribe  his  thought,  and  say 
— he  is  ? 

Agam.  No,  noble  Ajax;  you  are  as  strong,  as 
valiant,  as  wise,  no  less  noble,  much  more  gentle, 
and  altogether  more  tractable. 

Ajax.  Why  should  a  man  be  proud  ?  How 
doth  pride  grow  ?     I  know  not  what  pride  is. 

Agam.  Your  mind  's  the  clearer,  Ajax,  and 
your  virtues  the  fairer.  He  that  is  proud,  eats 
up  himself:  pride  is  his  own  glass,  his  own  trum- 
pet, his  own  chronicle ;  and  whatever  praises 
itself  but  in  the  deed,  devours  the  deed  in  the 
praise. 

Ajax.  I  do  hate  a  proud  man,  as  I  hate  the 
engendering  of  toads. 

Nest.  And  yet  he  loves  himself:  Is  it  not 
strange  ?  [Aside. 

Re-enter  Ulysses. 

Ulyss.  Achilles  will  not  to  the  field  to-morrow. 
Agam.  What 's  his  excuse  ? 
Ulyss.  He  doth  rely  on  none ; 

But  carries  on  the  stream  of  his  dispose. 
Without  observance  or  respect  of  any. 
In  will  peculiar  and  in  self-admission. 

Agam.    Why  will  he  not,  upon   our  fair   re- 
quest, 
Untent  his  person,  and  share  the  air  with  us? 
Ulyss.  Things  small  as  nothing,  for  request's 
sake  only. 
He  makes  important:  Possess'd  he  is  with  great- 
ness ; 
And  speaks  not  to  himself,  but  with  a  pride 
That  quarrels  at  self-breath  :  imagin'd  worth 

1117- 


ACT    II. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


8CBNB    in. 


Holds  in  Lis  blood  such  swoln  and  hot  discourse, 
That,  'twixt  his  mental  and  his  active  parts, 
Kitigdom'd  Achilles  in  commotion  rages, 
And  batters  down  himself:  What  should  I  say  ? 
He  is  so   plaguy  proud,  that  the  death  tokens 

of  it 
Cry — "  No  recovery." 

Again.  Let  Ajax  go  to  him. — 

Dear  lord,  go  you  and  greet  him  in  his  tent : 
'T  is  said,  he  holds  you  well ;   and  will  be  led. 
At  your  request,  a  little  from  himself. 

Ulyss.  O  Agamemnon,  let  it  not  be  so  ! 
We  '11  consecrate  the  steps  that  Ajax  makes 
When  they  go  from  Achilles :    Shall  the  proud 

lord, 
That  bastes  his  arrogance  with  his  own  seam  ; 
And  never  suffers  matter  of  the  world 
Enter  his  thoughts, — save  such  as  do  revolve 
And  ruminate  himself, — shall  he  be  worshipp'd 
Of  that  we  hold  an  idol  more  than  he  ? 
No,  this  thrice  worthy  and  right  valiant  lord 
Must  not  so  stale  his  palm,  nobly  acquir'd  ; 
Nor,  by  my  will,  assubjugate  his  merit, 
As  amply  titled  as  Achilles  is, 
Ky  going  to  Achilles : 
That  were  to  enlard  his  fot-already  pride; 
And  add  more  coals  to  Cancer,  when  he  burns 
With  entertaining  great  Hyperion. 
Tills  lord  go  to  him  !  Jupiter  forbid  ; 
And  say  in  thunder — "Achilles,  go  to  him." 
Nest.  O,  this  is  well ;  he  rubs  the  vein  of  him. 

YAside. 
l)io.  And  how  his  silence  drinks  up  this  ap- 
plause !  \^Aside. 
Ajax.  If  I  go  to  him,  with  my  arm'd  fist  I  '11 
pash  him 
Over  the  face. 

Agam.  O,  no,  you  shall  not  go. 

Ajax.  An  he  be  proud  with  me,  I  '11  pheeze  his 
pride : 
r^et  me  go  to  him. 

Ulyss.  Not  for  the  worth  that  hangs  upon  our 
quarrel. 

Ajax.  A  paltry,  insolent  fellow, 

Nest.  How  he  describes 

linuself!  [^Aside. 

Ajax.  Can  he  not  be  sociable? 
Ulyss.  The  raven 

Ciiides  blackness.  \Aside. 

Ajax.  I  will  let  his  humours  blood. 

Agam.  He  '11  be  physician,  that  should  be  the 
patient.  [Aside. 

1118 


Ajax.  An  all  men 
Were  o'  my  mind, 

Ulyss.      Wit  would  be  out  of  fashion.  [Aside 

Ajax.  He  should  not  bear  it  so, 
He  should  eat  swords  first :  Shall  pride  carry  it  ? 

Nest.  An  't  would,  you  'd  carry  half.      [Aside. 

Ulyss.  He  'd  have  ten  shares.     [Aside. 

Ajax.  I  '11  knead  him,  I  will  make  him  sup- 
ple:  

Nest,  He  's  not  yet  thorough  warm  :  force  him 
with  praises : 
Pour  in,  pour  in ;  his  ambition  is  dry.        [Aside. 

Ulyss.  My  lord,  you  feed  too  much  on  this 
dislike.  [To  Agam. 

Nest.  0  noble  general,  do  not  do  so. 

Bio.    You    must   prepare    to    fight    without 
Achilles. 

Ulyss.  Why,  't  is  this   naming   of  him  does 
him  harm. 
Here  is  a  man — But  't  is  before  his  face ; 
I  will  be  silent. 

Nest.  Wlierefore  should  you  so  ? 

He  is  not  emulous,  as  Achilles  is. 

Ulyss.  Know  the  whole  world,  he  is  as  valiant. 

Ajax.  A  whoreson  dog,  that  shall  palter  thus 
with  us ! 
I  would,  he  were  a  Trojan  ! 

Nest.  What  a  vice 

Were  it  in  Ajax  now 

Ulyss.  If  he  were  proud  ? 

Dio.  Or  covetous  of  praise  ? 

Ulyss.  Ay,  or  surly  borne  ? 

Dio.  Or  strange,  or  self-afiected  ? 

Ulyss.  Thank  the  heavens,  lord,  thou  art  of 
sweet  composure ; 
Praise  him  that  got  thee,  she  that  gave  thee  suck  , 
Fam'd  be  thy  tutor,  and  thy  parts  of  nature 
Thrice-fam'd,  beyond  all  erudition  : 
But  he  that  disciplin'd  thy  arms  to  fight. 
Let  Mars  divide  eternity  in  twain, 
And  give  him  half:  and,  for  thy  vigour, 
Bull-bearing  Milo  his  addition  yield 
To  sinewy  Ajax.     I  will  not  praj^e  thy  vrisdom, 
Which,  like  a  bourn,  a  pale,  a  shore,  confines 
Thy  spacious  and  dilated  parts :  Here  's  Nestor,— 
Instructed  by  the  antiquary  times. 
He  must,  he  is,  he  cannot  but  be  wise; — 
But  pardon,  father  Nestor,  were  your  days 
As  green  as  Ajax,  and  your  brain  so  temper'd, 
You  should  not  have  the  eminence  of  him, 
But  be  as  Ajax. 

Ajax.  .Shall  i  call  yon  father? 


ACT    III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Nest.  Ay,  my  good  son. 

Dio.  Be  rul'd  by  liim,  lord  Ajax. 

Ulyss.   There  is   no  tarrying  here;  the  hart 
Achilles 
Keeps  thicket.     Please  it  our  great  general 
To  call  together  all  his  state  of  war ; 
Fresh  kings  are  come  to  Troy  :  To-morrow 


We  must  with  all  our  main  of  power  stand  fast : 
And  here  's  a  lord, — come  knights  from  east  to 

west, 
And  cull  their  flower,  Ajax  shall  cope  the  best. 

Agam,  Go  we  to  council.     Let  Achilles  sleep  : 
Light  boats  sail  swift,  though  greater  hulks  draw 

deep.  [Exeunt 


ACT   III. 


SCENE  L— Troy.     A  Hoom  in  Priam's  Palace. 
Enter  Pandarus  and  a  Servant. 

Pan.  Friend  !  you  !  pray  you,  a  word  :  Do  not 
you  follow  the  young  lord  Paris  ? 

Serv.  Ay,  sir,  when  he  goes  before  me. 

Pan.  You  do  depend  upon  him,  I  mean  ? 

Serv.  Sir,  I  do  depend  upon  the  lord. 

Pan.  You  do  depend  upon  a  noble  gentleman  ; 
I  must  needs  praise  him. 

Serv.  The  lord  be  praised  ! 

Pan.  You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Serv.  'Faith,  sir,  superficially. 

P«n.  Friend,  know  me  better ;  I  am  the  lord 
Pandarus. 

Serv.  I  hope,  I  shall  know  your  honour  better. 

Pan.  I  do  desire  it. 

Serv.  You  are  in  the  state  of  grace. 

[Music  within. 

Pan.  Grace  1  not  so,  friend  ;  honour  and  lord- 
sliip  are  my  titles  : — What  music  is  this  ? 

Serv.  I  do  but  partly  know,  sir ;  it  is  music  in 
parts. 

Pati.  Know  you  the  musicians  ? 

Serv.  Wholly,  sir. 

Pan.  Who  play  they  to  ? 

Serv.  To  the  bearers,  sir. 

Pan.  At  whose  pleasure,  friend  ? 

Serv.  At  mine,  sir,  and  theirs  that  love  music. 

Pan.  Command,  I  mean,  friend. 

Serv.  Who  shall  I  command,  sir  ? 

Pan.  'Friend,  we  understand  not  one  another ; 
I  am  tro  courtly,  and  thou  art  too  cunning  :  At 
whose  request  do  these  men  play  ? 

Serv.  That  's  to  't,  indeed,  sir :  Marry,  sir,  at 
tile  request  of  Paris  my  lord,  who  is  tliere  in  per- 


son ;  with  him,  the  mortal  Venus,  the  heart-blood 
of  beauty,  love's  invisible  soul, 

Pan.  Who,  my  cousin  Cressida  ? 

Serv.  No,  sir,  Helen  :  Could  you  not  find  out 
that  by  her  attributes  ? 

Pan.  It  should  seem,  fellow,  that  thou  hast  not 
seen  the  lady  Cressida.  I  come  to  speak  with 
Paris  from  the  Prince  Troilus :  I  will  make  a 
complimental  assault  upon  him,  for  my  business 
seetlis. 

Serv.  Sodden  business  1  there 's  a  stewed  phrase, 
indeed  1 

Enter  Paris  and  Helen,  attended. 

Pan.  Fair  be  to  you,  my  lord,  and  to  all  this 
fair  company  !  fair  desires,  in  all  fair  measure, 
fairly  guide  them  !  especially  to  you,  fair  queen  ! 
fair  thoughts  be  your  fair  pillow  ! 

Helen.  Dear  lord,  you  are  full  of  fair  words. 

Pan.  You  speak  your  fair  pleasure,  sweet  queen. 
— Fair  prince,  here  is  good  broken  music. 

Par.  You  have  broke  it,  cousin  :  and,  by  my 
life,  you  shall  make  it  whole  again  :  you  shall 
piece  it  out  with  a  piece  of  your  performance  : — • 
Nell,  he  is  full  of  harmony. 

Pan.  Truly,  lady,  no. 

Helen.  0,  sir, 

Pan.  Rude,  in  sooth  ;  in  good  sooth,  very  rude. 

Par.  Well  said,  my  lord  !  well,  you  say  so  in  fits. 

Pan.  I  have  business  to  my  lord,  dear  queen  : — 
My  lord,  will  you  vouchsafe  me  a  word  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  this  shall  not  hedge  us  out :  we  '11 
hear  you  sing,  certainly. 

Pan.  Well,  sweet  queen,  you  are  pleasant  with 
me. — But  (marry)  thus,  my  lord, — My  dear  lord, 
and  most  esteemed  fi-iend,  your  brother  Troilus — 

1119 


ACT    III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENR    1. 


Helen.  My  lord  Pandaras ;  honey-sweet  lord, — 

Pan.  Go  to,  sweet  queen,  go  to  : — commends 
fiiinself  most  affectionately  to  you. 

Helen.  You  shall  not  bob  us  out  of  our  melody : 
If  you  do,  our  melancholy  upon  your  head ! 

Pan.  Sweet  queen,  sweet  queen  ;  that 's  a  sweet 
queen,  i' faith. 

Helen.  And  to  make  a  sweet  lady  sad,  is  a  sour 
offence. 

Pan.  Nay,  that  shall  not  serve  your  turn  ;  that 
shall  it  not,  in  truth,  la.  Nay,  I  care  not  for  such 
words ;  no,  no. — And,  my  lord,  he  desires  you, 
that,  if  the  king  call  for  him  at  supper,  you  will 
make  his  excuse. 

Helen.  My  lord  Pandarus, 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen, — my  very 
very  sweet  queen  ? 

Par.  What  exploit  's  in  hand  ?  where  sups  he 
,o-night  ? 

Helen.  Nay,  but  my  lord, 

Pan.  What  says  my  sweet  queen  ? — My  cousin 
tvill  fall  out.  with  you.  You  must  not  know  where 
he  sups. 

Far.  I  '11  lay  my  life,  with  my  disposer  Cres- 
skIh. 

Pan.  No,  no,  no  such  matter,  you  are  wide  ; 
come,  your  disposer  is  sick. 

Par.  Well,  I  '11  make  excuse. 

Pan.  Ay,  good  my  lord.  Why  should  you 
say — Cressida  ?  no,  your  poor  disposer  's  sick. 

Par.  I  spy. 

Pan.  You  spy  !  what  do  you  spy  ? — Come, 
give  me  an  instrument. — Now,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Why,  this  is  kindly  done. 

Pan.  My  niece  is  horribly  in  love  with  a  thing 
you  have,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  She  shall  have  it,  my  lord,  if  it  be  not 
my  lord  Paris. 

Pan.  He  1  no,  she  '11  none  of  him  ;  they  two 
are  twain. 

Helen.  Falling  in,  after  falling  out,  may  make 
them  three. 

Pan.  Come,  come,  I  '11  hear  no  more  of  this  ; 
I  '11  sing  you  a  song  now. 

Helen.  Ay,  ay,  pr'ythee  now.  By  my  troth, 
sweet  lord,  thou  hast  a  fine  forehead. 

Pan.  Ay,  you  may,  you  may. 

Helen.  Let  thy  song  be  love  :  this  love  will 
mdo  us  all.     0,  Cupid,  Cupid,  Cupid  ! 

Pan,  Love  !  ay,  that  it  shall,  i'  faith. 

Par.  Ay,  good  now,  love,  love,  nothing  but 
love, 

1120 


Pan.  In  good  troth,  it  begins  so  : 

Love,  love,  nothing  but  love,  still  more  I 

For,  oh,  love's  bow 

Shoots  buck  and  doe  : 

The  shaft  confounds. 

Not  that  it  wounds 
But  tickles  still  the  sore. 

These  lovers  cry -Oh  !  oh  1  they  che  1 
Yet  that  which  seems  the  wound  to  kill. 

Doth  turn  oh  !  oh  1  to  ha  I  ha  !  he  1 
So  dying  love  lives  still : 

Oh  !  oh  !  a  while,  but  ha !  ha  1  ha ! 

Oh!  oh!  groans' out  for  ha !  ha!  ha! 

Hey  ho  ! 

Helen.  In  love,  i'  faith,  to  the  very  tip  of  the 
nose. 

Par.  He  eats  nothing  but  doves,  love ;  and 
that  breeds  hot  blood,  and  hot  blood  begets  hot 
thoughts,  and  hot  thoughts  beget  hot  deeds,  and 
hot  deeds  is  love. 

Pan.  Is  this  the  generation  of  love  ?  hot  blood, 
hot  thoughts,  and  hot  deeds  ? — Why,  they  are 
vipers  :  Is  love  a  generatipn  of  vipers  ?  Sweet 
lord,  who  's  a-field  to-day  ? 

Par.  Hector,  Deiphobus,  Helenus,  Antenor,  and 
all  the  gallantry  of  Troy :  I  would  fain  have  armed 
to-night,  but  my  Nell  would  not  have  it  so.  How 
chance  ray  brother  Troilus  went  not  ? 

Helen.  He  hangs  the  lip  at  something  ; — you 
know  all,  lord  Pandarus. 

Pan.  Not  I,  honey-sweet  queen. — I  long  to  hear 
how  they  sped  to-day. — You  '11  remember  your 
brother's  excuse  ? 

Par.  To  a  hair. 

Pan.  Farewell,  sweet  queen. 

Helen.  Commend  me  to  your  niece. 

Pan.  I  Avill,  sweet  queen.  [Exit. 

[A  Retreat  sounded. 

Par.  They  are  come  from  field :  let  us  to  Priam's 
hall, 
To  greet  the  warriors.     Sweet  Helen,  I  must  woo 

you 
To  help  unarm  our  Hector  :  his  stubborn  buckles, 
With  these  your  white  enchanting  fingers  touch'd. 
Shall  more  obey,  than  to  the  edge  of  steel, 
Or  force  of  Greekish  sinews  ;  you  shall  do  more 
Than  all  the  island  kings,  disarm  great  Hector. 

Helen.  'T  will  make  us  proud  to  be  his  servant, 
Paris : 
Yea,  what  he  shall  receive  of  us  in  duty, 
Give  us  more  palm  in  beauty  than  we  have ; 
Yea,  overshines  ourself. 

Par.  Sweet,  above  thought  I  love  thee.  \ExeunU 


TliOiLUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE  n. 


SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Pandarus'  Orchard. 
Enter  Pandarus  and  a  Servant,  meeting. 

Pan.  How  now  ?  where  's  thy  master  ?  at  my 
cousin  Cressida's  ? 

Serv.  No,  sir  ;  he  stays  for  you  to  conduct  him 
thither. 

Enter  Troilus. 

Pan.  0,  here  he  comes. — How  now,  how  now  ? 

Tro.  Sirrah,  walk  oflf.  [Exit  Servant. 

Pan.  Have  you  seen  my  cousin  ? 

Tro.  No,  Pandarus  :  I  stalk  about  her  door, 
Like  a  strange  soul  upon  the  Stygian  banks 
Staying  for  waftage.     O,  be  thou  my  Charon, 
And  give  me  swift  transportance  to  those  fields, 
Where  I  may  wallow  in  the  lily  beds 
Propos'd  for  the  deserver !  0  gentle  Pandarus, 
From  Cupid's  shoulder  pluck  his  painted  wings, 
And  tly  with  me  to  Cressid  ! 

Pan.  Walk  here  i'  the  orchard,  I  '11  bring  her 
straight.  [Exit  Pan. 

Tro.  I  am  giddy  ;  expectation  whirls  me  round. 
The  imaginary  relish  is  so  sweet 
That  it  enchants  my  sense :  What  will  it  be, 
When  that  the  wat'ry  palate  tastes  indeed 
Love's  thrice-repured  nectar?  death,  I  fear  me ; 
Swooning  destruction  ;  or  some  joy  too  fine, 
loo  subtle-potent,  lun'd  too  sharp  in  sweetness. 
For  the  capacity  of  my  ruder  powers  : 
I  fear  it  much ;  and  I  do  fear  besides, 
That  I  shall  lose  distinction  in  my  jovs  ; 
As  doth  a  battle,  when  they  charge  on  heaps 
The  enemy  flying. 

Re-enter  Pandarus. 

Pan.  She  's  making  her  ready,  she  '11  come 
straight :  you  must  be  witty  now.  She  does  so 
blush,  and  fetches  her  wind  so  short,  as  if  she  were 
frayed  with  a  sprite :  I  '11  fetch  her.  It  is  the 
prettiest  villain  : — she  fetches  her  breath  as  short 
as  a  new-ta'en  sparrow.  [Exit  Pan. 

Tro.  Even  such  a  passion   doth  embrace  my 
bosom  : 
My  heart  beats  thicker  than  a  feverous  pulse ; 
And  all  my  powers  do  their  bestowing  lose. 
Like  vassalage  at  unawares  encount'ring 
The  eye  of  majesty. 

Enter  Pandarus  and  Cressida. 
Pan.    Come,   com«>,   what   need  you   blush  ? 

141 


shame  's  a  baby. — Here  she  is  now :  swear  the 
oaths  now  to  her,  that  you  have  sworn  to  me. — 
What,  are  you  gone  again  ?  you  must  be  watched 
ere  you  be  made  tame,  must  you  ?  Come  your 
ways,  come  your  ways ;  an  you  draw  back- 
ward, we  '11  put  you  i'  the  fills.^' — Wliy  do  you 
not  speak  to  her? — Come,  draw  this  curtain, 
and  let 's  see  your  picture.  Alas  the  day,  how 
loth  you  are  to  ofiend  daylight!  an  't  were  dark, 
you  'd  close  soonei-.  So,  so ;  rub  on,  and  kiss 
the  mistress.  How  now,  a  kiss  in  fee-farm  !^* 
build  there,  carpenter ;  the  air  is  sweet.  Nay, 
you  shall  fight  your  hearts  out,  ere  I  part  you. 
The  falcon  as  the  tercel,  for  all  the  ducks  i'  the 
river  :  go  to,  go  to. 

Tro.  You  have  berefl  me  of  all  words,  lady. 

Pan.  Words  pay  no  debts,  give  her  deeds  :  but 
she  '11  bereave  you  of  the  deeds  too,  if  she  call 
your  activity  in  question.  What,  billing  again  ? 
Here  's — "  In  witness  whereof  the  parties  inter- 
changeably"— Come  in,  come  in ;  I  '11  go  get  a 
fire.  [Exit  Pan. 

Ores.   Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Tro.  0  Cressida,  how  often  have  I  wished  me 
thus? 

Cres.  Wished,  my  lord  ? — The  gods  grant ! — O 
my  lord ! 

Tro,  What  should  they  grant  ?  what  makes 
this  pretty  abruption  ?  What  too  curious  dr-eg 
espies  my  sweet  lady  in  the  fountain  of  our  love  ? 

Cres.  More  dregs  than  water,  if  my  feai-s  have 
eyes. 

Tro.  Fears  make  devils  cherubims ;  they  never 
see  truly. 

Cres.  Blind  fear,  that  seeing  reason  leads,  finds 
safer  footing  than  blind  reason  stumbling  without 
fear :  To  fear  the  worst,  oft  cures  the  worst. 

Tro.  O,  let  my  lady  apprehend  no  fear :  in  all 
Cupid's  pageant  there  is  presented  no  monster. 

Cres.  Nor  nothing  monstrous  neither  ? 

Tro.  Nothing,  but  our  undertakings  ;  when  we 
vow  to  weep  seas,  live  in  fire,  eat  rocks,  tame 
tigers  ;  thinking  it  harder  for  our  mistress  to  de- 
vise imposition  enough,  than  for  us  to  undergo 
any  diflSculty  imposed.  This  js  the  monstruosity 
in  love,  lady, — that  the  will  is  infinite,  and  the 
execution  confined ;  that  the  desire  is  boundless, 
and  the  act  a  slave  to  limit. 

Cres.  They  say,  all  lovers  swear  more  perform- 
ance than  they  are  able,  and  yet  reserve  an  ability 
that  they  never  perform  ;  vowing  more  than  the 
perfection  of  tea  and  discharging  less  than  th« 

1121 


ACT    III, 


TROILUS  AND  CKESSIDA. 


tenth  part  of  one.  They  that  have  the  voice  of 
.ions,  and  the  act  of  hares,  are  they  not  monsters  ? 

Tro.  Are  there  such?  such  are  not  we:  Praise 
us  as  we  are  tasted,  allow  us  as  we  prove ;  our 
head  shall  go  bare,  till  merit  crown  it :  no  per- 
fection in  reversion  shall  have  a  praise  in  present : 
we  will  not  name  desert,  before  his  birth ;  and, 
being  born,  his  addition  shall  be  humble.  Few 
words  to  fair  faith  :  Troilus  shall  be  such  to  Cres- 
sid,  as  what  envy  can  say  worst,  shall  be  a  mock 
for  his  truth ;  and  what  truth  can  speak  truest, 
not  truer  than  Troilus. 

Ores.  Will  you  walk  in,  my  lord  ? 

Re-enter  Pandarus. 

Pan.  What,  blushing  still  ?  have  you  not  done 
talking  yet  ? 

Cres.  Well,  uncle,  what  folly  I  commit,  I  dedi- 
cate to  you. 

Pan.  I  thank  you  for  that ;  if  my  lord  get  a  boy 
of  you,  you  '11  give  him  me :  Be  true  to  ray  lord  : 
if  he  flinch,  chide  me  for  it. 

Tro.  You  know  now  your  hostages ;  your  un- 
cle's word,  and  my  firm  faith. 

Pan.  Nay,  I  '11  give  my  word  for  her  too ; 
our  kindred,  though  they  be  long  ere  they  are 
wooed,  they  are  constant,  being  won  :  they  are 
burs,  I  can  tell  you ;  they  '11  stick  where  they  are 
thrown. 

Cres.  Boldness  comes  to  me  now,  and  brings 
me  heart : — 
Prince  Troilus,  I  have  lov'd  you  night  and  day 
For  many  weary  months. 

Tro.  Why  was  my  Cressid  then  so  hard  to  win  ? 

Cres.  Hard  to  seem  won  ;  but  I  was  won,  my  lord, 
With  the  first  glance  that  ever — Pardon  me  ; — 
If  I  confess  much,  you  will  play  the  tyrant. 
I  love  you  now  ;  but  not,  till  now,  so  much 
But  I  might  master  it : — in  faith,  I  lie ; 
My  thoughts  were  like  unbridled  children,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother :  Sec,  we  fools  ! 
Why  have  I  blabb'd  ?  who  shall  be  true  to  us. 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves  ? 
But,  though  I  lov'd  you  well,  I  woo'd  you  not ; 
And  yet,  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man ; 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of  speaking   first.      Sweet,   bid    Mie    hold    my 

tongue : 
For,  in  this  rapture,  I  shall  surely  speak 
The  thing  I  shall  repent.     See,  see,  your  silence, 
Gunning  in  dumbness,  from  my  weakness  draws 
My  very  soul  of  counsel :  Stop  my  mouth. 
1122 


Tro.    And    shall,    albeit    sweet    music    issues 
thence. 

Pan.  Pretty,  i'  faith. 

Cres.  My  lord,  1  do  beseech  you,  pardon  re  e ; 
'T  was  not  my  purpose,  thus  to  beg  a  kiss : 
I  am  asham'd  ; — O  heavens  !  what  have  I  done? — 
For  this  time  will  I  take  my  leave,  my  lord. 

Tro.  Your  leave,  sweet  Cressid  ? 

Pan.  Leave !  an  vou  take  leave  till  to-morrow 


Cres.  Pray  you,  content  you. 

Tro.  What  ofiends  you,  lady  ? 

Cres.  Sir,  mine  own  company. 

Tro.  You  cannot  shun 

Yourself. 

Cres.         Let  me  go  and  try  : 
I  have  a  kind  of  self  resides  with  you  ; 
But  an  unkind  self,  that  itself  will  leave, 
To  be  another's  fool.     I  would  be  gone : — 
Where  is  my  wit  ?  I  know  not  what  I  speak. 

Tro.  Well  know  they  what  they  speak,  that 
speak  so  wisely. 

Cres.  Perchance,  my  lord,  I  show  more  craft 
than  love ; 
And  fell  so  roundly  to  a  large  confession, 
To  angle  for  your  thoughts :  But  you  are  wise  ; 
Or  else  you  love  not :  For,  to  be  wise,  and  love, 
Exceeds  man's   might ;    that   dwells  with  gods 
above. 

Tro.  0,  that  I  thought  it  could  be  in  a  woman, 
(As,  if  it  can,  I  will  presume  in  you,) 
To  feed  for  aye  her  lamp  and  flames  of  love ; 
To  keep  her  constancy  in  plight  and  youth, 
Outliving  beauty's  outward,  with  a  mind 
That  doth  renew  swifter  than  blood  decays  ! 
Or,  that  persuasion  could  but  thus  convince  me, — 
That  my  integrity  and  truth  to  you 
Might  be  affronted  with  the  match  and  weight 
Of  such  a  winnovv'd  purity  in  love  ; 
How  were  I  then  uplifted  1  but,  alas, 
I  am  as  true  as  truth's  simplicity, 
And  simpler  than  the  infancy  of  truth. 

Cres.  In  that  I  '11  war  with  yoUi 

Tro.  O  virtuous  fight, 

When  right  with  right  wars  who  shall  be  most 

right! 
True  swains  in  love  shall,  in  the  world  to  come, 
Approve   their   truths    by    Troilus ;    when    theii 

rhymes. 
Full  of  protest,  of  oath,  and  big  compare, 
Want  similes,  truth  tir'd  with  iteration, — 
As  true  as  stee',  as  plantage  to  the  moon," 


ACT    III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENK   in. 


As  sun  to  day,  as  turtle  to  her  mate, 

As  iron  to  adamant,  as  earth  to  the  centre, — 

Yet,  after  all  comparisons  of  truth, 

As  truth's  authentic  author  to  be  cited. 

As  true  as  Troilus  shall  crown  up  the  verse. 

And  sanctify  the  numbers. 

Cre^  Prophet  may  you  be  ! 

If  I  be  faise,  or  swerve  a  hair  from  truth, 
When  time  is  old  and  hath  forgot  itself. 
When  waterdrops  have  worn  the  stones  of  Troy, 
And  blind  oblivion  swallow'd  cities  up, 
And  mighty  states  characterless  are  grated 
To  dusty  nothing ;  yet  let  memory, 
From  false  to  false,  among  false  maids  in  love. 
Upbraid  my  falsehood !  when  they  have  said — as 

false 
As  air,  as  water,  wind,  or  sandy  earth, 
As  fox  to  lamb,  as  wolf  to  heifer's  calf, 
Pard  to  the  hind,  or  stepdame  to  her  son ; 
Yea,  let  them  say,  to  stick  the  heart  of  falsehood, 
As  false  as  Cressid. 

Pan.  Go  to,  a  bargain  made  :  seal  it,  seal  it ; 
I  '11  be  the  witness. — Here  I  hold  your  hand  ;  here, 
my  cousin's.  If  ever  you  prove  false  one  to  an- 
other, since  I  have  taken  such  pains  to  bring  you 
together,  let  all  pitiful  goers-between  be  called  to 
the  world's  end  after  my  name,  call  them  all — 
Pandars ;  let  all  constant  men  be  Troiluses,  all 
false  women  Cressids,  and  all  brokers-between 
Pandars  I  say,  amen. 

Tro.  Amen. 

Ores.  Amen. 

Pan.  Amen.  Whereupon  I  will  show  you  a 
chamber  and  a  bed,  which  bed,  because  it  shall 
not  speak  of  your  pretty  encounters,  press  it  to 
death :  away. 

And  Cupid  grant  all  tongue-tied  maidens  here. 

Bed,  chamber,  Pandar  to  provide  this  geer ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  m.—The  Grecian  Camp. 

Enter  Agamemnox,  Ulysses,  Diomedes,  Nestor, 
Ajax,  Menelaus,  and  Calchas. 

Cat  Now,  princes,  for  the  service  I  have  done 
you, 
The  advantage  of  the  time  prompts  me  loud 
To  call  for  recompense.     Appear  it  to  your  mind, 
That,  through  the  sight  I  bear  in  things,  to  Jove 
I  have  abandon'd  Troy,  left  my  possession, 
Incurr'd  a  traitor's  name  ;  expos'd  myself, 
From  certairi  and  possess'd  conveniences, 


To  doubtful  fortunes  ;  sequest'ring  from  me  all 

That  time,  acquaintance,  custom,  and  condition. 

Made  tame  and  most  familiar  to  ray  nature ; 

And  here,  to  do  you  service,  am  become 

As  new  into  the  world,  strange,  unacquainted 

I  do  beseech  you,  as  in  way  of  taste, 

To  give  me  now  a  little  benefit, 

Out  of  those  many  register'd  in  promise. 

Which,  you  say,  live  to  come  in  my  behalf. 

Agam.    What    would'st   thou    of  us,  Trojan 
make  demand. 

Cal.  You  have  a  Trojan  prisoner,  call'd  Ante 
nor. 
Yesterday  took ;  Troy  holds  him  very  dear. 
Oft  have  you,  (often  have  you  thanks  therefore,) 
Desir'd  my  Cressid  in  right  great  exchange. 
Whom  Troy  hath  still  denied  :  But  this  Antenor, 
I  know,  is  such  a  wrest  in  their  affairs. 
That  their  negotiations  all  must  slack. 
Wanting  his  manage ;  and  they  will  almost 
Give  us  a  prince  of  blood,  a  son  of  Priam, 
In  change  of  him  :  let  him  be  sent,  great  princes, 
And  he  shall  buy  my  daughter ;  and  her  presence 
Shall  quite  strike  off  all  service  I  have  done. 
In  most  accepted  pain. 

Agam.  Let  Diomedes  bear  him, 

And  bring  us  Cressid  hither;  Calchas  shall  have 
What  he  requests  of  us. — Good  Diomed, 
Furnish  you  fairly  for  this  interchange: 
Withal,  bring  word — if  Hector  will  to-morrow 
Be  answer'd  in  his  challenge :  Ajax  is  ready. 

Dio.  This  shall  I  undertake ;  and  't  is  a  burden 
Which  I  am  proud  to  bear. 

[Exeunt  Dio.  and  Cal. 

Enter  Achilles  and  Patroclus,  before  their 
Tent. 

Ulyss.  Achilles  stands  i'  the  entrance  of  his 
tent : — 
Please  it  our  general  to  pass  strangely  by  him, 
As  if  he  were  forgot ;  and,  princes  all. 
Lay  negligent  and  loose  regard  upon  him : 
I  will  come  last :  'T  is  like,  he  'U  question  me. 
Why  such  unplausive  eyes  are  bent,  why  turn'd 

on  him : 
If  so,  I  have  derision  med'cinable. 
To  use  between  your  strangeness  and  his  pride, 
Which  his  own  will  shall  have  desire  to  drink ; 
It  may  do  good :  pride  hath  no  other  glass 
To  show  itself,  but  pride ;  for  supple  knees 
Feed  arrogance,  and  are  the  proud  man's  fees. 
Aaam.  We  'II  execute  your  purpose,  and  put  on 

1123 


ACT   III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE   in. 


A  form  of  strangeness  as  we  pass  along ; — 
So  do  each  lord ;  and  either  greet  him  not, 
Or  else  disdainfully,  which  shall  shake  him  more 
Than  if  not  look'd  on.     I  will  lead  the  way. 

Achil.  What,  comes  the  general  to  speak  with 
me? 
You  know  my  mind,  I  '11  fight  no  more  'gainst 
Troy. 

Agam.  What  says  Achilles  ?  would  he  aught 
with  us  ? 

Nest.  Would  you,   my   lord,   aught  with  the 
general  ? 

Achil.  No. 

Nest.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Agam.  The  better.    [^Exeunt  Agam.  and  Nest. 
'  Achil.  •  Good  day,  good  day. 

Men.  How  do  you  ?  how  do  you  ?  [Exit  Men. 

Achil.  What,  does  the  cuckold  scorn  me? 

Ajax.  How  now,  Patroclus  ? 

Achil.  Good  morrow,  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Ha  ? 

Achil.  Good  morrow. 

Ajax.  Ay,  and  good  next  day  too.  [Exit  Ajax. 

Achil.  What  mean  these  fellows  ?    Know  they 
not  Achilles  ? 

Pair.  They  pass  by  strangely :   they  were  us'd 
to  bend. 
To  send  their  smiles  before  them  to  Achilles ; 
To  come  as  humbly,  as  they  us'd  to  creep 
To  holy  altars. 

Achil.  What,  am  I  poor  of  late? 

'T  is  certain,  greatness,  once  fallen  out  with  for- 
tune. 
Must  fall  out  with  men  too :  What  the  declin'd 

is, 
fc£e  shall  as  soon  read  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
As  feel  in  his  own  fall :  for  men,  like  butterflies, 
Show  not  their  mealy  wings,  but  to  the  summer; 
And  not  a  man,  for  being  simply  man. 
Hath  any  honour ;  but  honour  for  those  honours 
That  are  without  him,  as  place,  riches,  favour, 
Prizes  of  accident  as  oft  as  merit : 
Which  when  they  fall,  as  being  slippery  standers, 
The  love  that  lean'd  on  them  as  slippery  too, 
Do  one  pluck  down  another,  and  together 
Die  ill  the  fall.     But  't  is  not  so  with  me: 
Fortune  and  I  are  friends ;  I  do  enjoy 
A  t  ample  point  all  that  I  did  possess. 
Save  these  men's  looks ;  who  do,  methinks,  find 

out 
Something  not  worth  in  me  such  rich  beholding 
A.S  they  have  often  given.     Here  is  Ulysses ; 

1124 


I'll  interrupt  his  reading. — 
How  now,  Ulysses  ? 

Ulyss.  Now,  great  Thetis'  son  t 

Achil.  What  are  you  reading  ? 

Ulyss.  A  strange  fellow  here 

Writes  me.  That  man — how  dearly  ever  parted,* 
How  much  in  having,  or  without,  or  in, — 
Cannot  make  boast  to  have  that  which  he  hath, 
Nor  feels  not  what  he  owes,  but  by  reflection  ; 
As  when  his  virtues  shining  upon  others 
Heat  them,  and  they  retort  that  heat  again 
To  the  first  giver. 

Achil.  This  is  not  strange,  Ulysses 

The  beauty  that  is  borne  here  in  the  face 
The  bearer  knows  not,  but  commends  itself 
To  others'  eyes :  nor  doth  the  eye  itself 
(That  most  pure  spirit  of  sense)  behold  itself, 
Not  going  from  itself;  but  eye  to  eye  oppos'l 
Salutes  each  other  with  each  other's  form. 
For  speculation  turns  not  to  itself, 
Till  it  hath  travell'd,  and  is  mirror'd  there 
Where  it  may  see  itself:  this  is  not  strange  at  all. 

Ulyss.  I  do  not  strain  at  the  position. 
It  is  familiar ;  but  at  the  author's  drift : 
Who,  in  his  circumstance,^*  expressly  proves — - 
That  no  man  is  the  lord  of  any  thing, 
(Though  in  and  of  him  there  be  much  consisting,) 
Till  he  communicate  his  parts  to  others  : 
Nor  doth  he  of  himself  know  them  for  aught 
Till  he  behold  them  form'd  in  the  applause 
Where  they  are  extended ;  which,  likt>  an   arch, 

reverberates 
The  voice  again  ;  or  like  a  gate  of  steel 
Fronting  the  sun,  receives  and  renders  back 
His  figure  and  his  heat.     I  was  much  rapt  in  this; 
And  apprehended  here  immediately 
The  unknown  Ajax. 

Heavens,  what  a  man  is  there !  a  very  horse ; 
That   has   he    knows   not   what.     Nature,   what 

things  there  are, 
Most  abject  in  regard,  and  dear  in  use  ! 
What  things  again  most  dear  in  the  esteem, 
And    poor  in   worth  !      Now    shall    we   see   to- 
morrow. 
An  act  that  very  chance  doth  throw  upon  him, 
Ajax  renown'd.     O  heavens,  what  some  men  do, 
While  some  men  leave  to  do  ! 
How  some  men  creep  in  skittish  fortune's  hall, 
Whiles  others  play  the  idiots  in  her  eyes ! 
How  one  man  eats  into  another's  pride. 
While  pride  is  fasting  in  his  wantonness ! 
To  see  Lhese  Grecian  lords  I — why,  eveu  already 


ACT   ni. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE    111. 


They  clap  the  hibber  Ajax  on  the  shoulder ; 
As  if  his  foot  were  on  brave  Hector's  breast, 
\n<\  great  Troy  shrinking. 

Achil.  I  do  believe  it :  for  they  pass'd  by  me, 
As  raisers  do  by  beggars  ;  neither  gave  to  me 
Good  word,  nor  look :  What,  are  my  deeds  for- 
got? 
Ulyss.  Time  hath,  my  lord,  a  wallet  at  his 

back, 
Wherein  he  puts  alms  for  oblivion, 
A  great-sized  monster  of  ingratitudes : 
Those  scraps  are  good  deeds  past:  which  are 

devour'd. 
As  fast  as  they  are  made,  forgot  as  soon 
As  done  :  Perseverance,  dear  my  lord, 
Keeps  honour  bright :  To  have  done,  is  to  hang 
Quite  out  of  fashion,  like  a  rusty  mail 
In  monumental  mockery.     Take  the  instant  way; 
For  honour  travels  in  a  strait  so  narrow. 
Where  one  but  goes  abreast ;  keep  then  the  path ; 
For  emulation  hath  a  thousand  sons, 
That  one  by  one  pursue  :  If  you  give  way. 
Or  hedge  aside  from  the  direct  forthright. 
Like  to  an  enter'd  tide,  they  all  rush  by, 
And  leave  you  hindmost ; — 
Or,  like  a  gallant  horse  fallen  in  first  rank, 
Lie  there  for  pavement  to  the  abject  rear, 
O'er-run  and  trampled  on  :  Then  what  they  do  in 

present. 
Though   less   than    yours  in   past,   must  o'ertop 

yours : 
For  time  is  like  a  fashionable  host. 
That  slightly  shakes  his  parting  guest  by  the 

hand; 
And  with  his  arms  out-stretch'd,  as  he  would  fly, 
Grasps  in  the  comer  :  Welcome  ever  smiles, 
And  farewell  goes  out  sighing.     O,  let  not  virtue 

seek 
Remuneration  for  the  thing  it  was; 
For  beauty,  wit, 

High  birth,  vigour  of  bone,  desert  in  service, 
Love,  friendship,  charity,  are  subjects  all 
To  envious  and  calumniating  time. 
One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin, — 
That  all,  with  one  consent,  praise  new-born  gawds. 
Though  they  are  made  and  moulded  of  things  past ' 
And  give  to  dust,  that  is  a  little  gilt. 
More  laud  than  gilt  o'er  dusted. 
The  present  eye  praises  the  present  object : 
Then  marvel  not,  thou  great  and  complete  man, 
That  all  the  Greeks  begin  to  worship  Ajax ; 
Since  things  in  motion  sooner  catch  the  eye, 


Than  what  not  stirs.     The  cry  went  once  on  thee 

And  still  it  might ;  and  yet  it  may  again, 

If  thou  would'st  not  entomb  thyself  alive, 

And  case  thy  reputation  in  thy  tent ; 

Whose  glorious  deeds,  but  in  these  fields  of  lat(\ 

Made  emulous  missions  'mongst  the  gods  them 

selves. 
And  drave  great  Mars  to  faction. 

Achil.  Of  this  my  privacy 

I  have  strong  reasons. 

Ulyss.  But  'gainst  your  privacy 

The  reasons  are  more  potent  and  heroical : 
'T  is  known,  Achilles,  that  you  are  in  love 
With  one  of  Priam's  daughters.^^ 

Achil.  Ha  !  known  ? 

Ulyss.  Is  that  a  wonder  ? 
The  providence  that 's  in  a  watchful  state, 
Knows  almost  every  grain  of  Plutus'  gold  ; 
Finds  bottom  in  the  uncomprehensive  deeps ; 
Keeps  place  with  thought,  and  almost,  like  the 

gods. 
Does  thoughts  unveil  in  their  dumb  cradles. 
There  is  a  mystery  (with  whom  relation 
Durst  never  meddle)  in  the  soul  of  state  ; 
Which  hath  an  operation  more  divine. 
Than  breath,  or  pen,  can  give  expressure  to: 
All  the  commerce  that  you  have  had  with  Troy, 
As  perfectly  is  ours,  as  yours,  my  lord  ; 
And  better  would  it  fit  Achilles  much, 
To  throw  down  Hector,  than  Polyxena  : 
But  it  must  grieve  young  Pyrrhus  now  at  home, 
When  fame  shall  in  our  islands  sound  her  trump ; 
And  all  the  Greekish  girls  shall  tripping  sing, — 
"  Great  Hector's  sister  did  Achilles  win  ; 
But  our  great  Ajax  bravely  beat  down  him." 
Farewell,  my  lord :  I  as  your  lover  speak  ; 
The  fool  slides  o'er  the  ice  that  you  should  break 

[Exit 

Patr.  To  this   effect,  Achilles,  have  1    mov'd 
you: 
A  woman  impudent  and  mannish  grown 
Is  not  more  loath'd  than  an  effeminate  man 
In  time  of  action.     I  stand  conderan'd  for  this  ; 
They  think,  my  little  stomach  to  the  war. 
And  your  great  love  to  me,  restrains  you  thus  : 
Sweet,  rouse  yourself;  and  the  weak  wanton  Cupid 
Shall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold, 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane, 
Be  shook  to  very  air. 

Achil.  Shall  Ajax  fight  with  Hector ! 

Patr.  Ay  ;  and,  perhaps,  receive  much  honoui 
by  him. 

il25 


=nl 


ACT  III. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENB  in. 


I 


I   ! 


Achil.  I  see,  my  reputation  is  at  stake  ; 
My  fame  is  shrewdly  gor'd. 

Fair.  0,  then  beware  ; 

Tliose  wounds  heal  ill,  that  men  do  give  them- 
selves : 
Omission  to  do  what  is  necessary 
Seals  a  commission  to  a  blank  of  danger ; 
And  danger,  like  an  ague,  subtly  taints 
Even  then  when  we  sit  idly  in  the  sun. 

Achil.   Go  call  Thersites  hither,  sweet  Patro- 
clus ; 
I  '11  send  the  fool  to  Ajax,  and  desire  him 
To  invite  the  Trojan  lords  after  the  combat, 
To  see  us  here  unarm'd  :  I  have  a  woman's  long- 
ing, 
An  appetite  that  I  am  sick  withal, 
To  see  great  Hector  in  his  weeds  of  peace ; 
To  talk  with  him,  and  to  behold  his  visage 
Even  to  my  full  of  view.     A  labour  sav'd  ! 

Enter  Thersites. 

Ther.  A  wonder. 

Achil.  What? 

Ther.  Ajax  goes  up  and  down  the  field,  asking 
for  himself.  * 

Achil.  How  so  ? 

Ther.  He  must  fight  singly  to-morrow  with 
H*>etor;  and  is  so  prophetically  proud  of  an  he- 
roical  cudgelling,  that  he  raves  in  saying  nothing. 

Achil.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Ther.  Why,  he  stalks  up  and  down  like  a  pea- 
cock, a  stride,  and  a  stand  :  ruminates,  like  an 
hostess,  that  hath  no  arithmetic  but  her  brain  to 
set  down  her  reckoning  :  bites  his  lip  with  a  poli- 
tic regard,  as  who  should  say — there  were  wit  in 
this  head,  an  't  would  out ;  and  so  there  is ;  but 
it  lies  as  coldly  in  him  as  fire  in  a  flint,  which 
will  not  show  without  knocking.  The  man  's  un- 
done for  ever ;  for  if  Hector  break  not  his  neck  i' 
the  combat,  he  '11  break  it  himself  in  vain  glory. 
He  knows  not  me :  I  said,  "  Good-morrow,  Ajax ;" 
and  he  replies,  "  Thanks,  Agamemnon."  What 
think  you  of  this  man,  that  takes  me  for  the  gen- 
eral ?  He  is  grown  a  very  land-fish,  languageless, 
a  monster.  A  plague  of  opinion  !  a  man  may 
wear  it  on  both  sides,  like  a  leather  jerkin. 

Achil.  Thou  must  be  my  ambassador  to  him, 
Thersites. 

Ther,  Who,  I  ?  why,  he  '11  answer  nobody ;  he 

1126 


professes  not  answering ;  speaking  is  for  beggars 
he  wears  his  tongue  in  his  arms.     I  will  put  ot 
his  presence  ;  let  Patroclus  make  demands  to  me, 
you  shall  see  the  pageant  of  Ajax. 

Achil.  To  him,  Patroclus :  Tell  hina, — I  humbly 
desire  the  valiant  Ajax,  to  invite  the  most  valorous 
Hector  to  come  unarmed  to  my  tent ;  and  to  pro- 
cure safe  conduct  for  his  person,  of  the  magnani- 
mous, and  most  illustrious,  six-or-seven-times- 
honoured  captain-general  of  the  Grecian  axvay^ 
Agamemnon.     Do  this. 

Patr.  Jove  bless  great  Ajax. 

Ther.  Humph  ! 

Patr.  I  come  from  the  worthy  Achilles, 

Ther.  Ha! 

Patr.  Who  most  humbly  desires  you,  to  invite 
Hector  to  his  tent ! 

Ther.  Humph ! 

Patr.  And  to  procure  safe  conduct  from  Afifa- 
memnon. 

Ther.  Agamemnon? 

Patr.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ther.  Ha! 

Patr.  What  say  you  to  't  ? 

Ther.  God  be  wi'  you,  with  all  my  heart. 

Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  If  to-morrow  be  a  fair  day,  by  eleven 
o'clock  it  will  go  one  way  or  other ;  howsoever,  he 
shall  pay  for  me  ere  he  has  me. 

Patr.  Your  answer,  sir. 

Ther.  Fare  you  well,  with  all  my  heart. 

Achil.  Why,  but  he  is  not  in  this  tune,  is  he  ? 

Ther.  No,  but  he  's  out  o'  tune  thus.  What 
music  will  be  in  him  when  Hector  has  knocked 
out  his  brains,  I  know  not .  But,  I  am  sure,  none ; 
unless  the  fiddler  Apollo  get  his  sinews  to  make 
catlings  on. 

Achil.  Come,  thou  shalt  bear  •a  letter  to  him 
straight. 

Ther.  Let  me  bear  another  to  his  horse ;  for 
that 's  the  more  capable  creature. 

Achil.  My  mind  is  troubled,  like  a  fountain 
stirr'd ;  ♦ 

And  I  myself  see  not  the  bottom  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Achil.  and  Patr. 

Ther.  'Would  the  fountain  of  your  mind  were 
clear  again,  that  I  might  water  an  ass  at  it !  I 
had  rather  be  a  tick  in  a  sheep,  than  such  a  valiant 
ignorance.  ,  \Exit. 


TKOILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


»CBNS   I 


ACT  lY. 


SCENE  I.— Troy.    A  Street. 

Enter,  at  one  side,  JEneas  and  Servant,  with  a 
Torch;  at  the  other,  Paris,  Deiphobus,  An- 
TENOR,  DioMEDEs,  and  Others,  with  Torches. 

Par.   See,  bo  !  who  's  that  there  ? 

Dei.  'T  is  the  lord  ^neas. 

j£ne.  Is  the  prince  there  in  person  ? — 
Had  I  so  good  occasion  to  lie  long, 
As  you,  prince  Paris,  nothing  but  heavenly  busi- 
ness 
Should  rob  my  bed-mate  of  my  company. 

Dio,  That's  my  mind  too. — Good  morrow,  lord 
■^neas. 

Par.  A  valiant  Greek,  -^neas  ;  take  his  hand  : 
Witness  the  process  of  your  speech,  wherein 
You  told — how  Diomed,  a  whole  week  by  days. 
Did  haunt  j'ou  in  the  field. 

^ne.  Health  to  you,  valiant  sir, 

During  all  question  of  the  gentle  truce  : 
But  when  I  meet  you  arm'd,  as  black  defiance, 
As  heart  can  think,  or  courage  execute. 

Dio.  The  one  and  other  Diomed  embraces. 
Our  bloods  are  now  in  calm  ;  and,  so  long,  health  : 
But  when  contention  and  occasion  meet, 
By  Jove,  I  '11  play  the  hunter  for  thy  life, 
With  all  my  force,  pursuit,  and  policy. 

jEne.  And  thou  shalt  hunt  a  lion,  that  will  fly 
With  his  face  backward. — In  humane  gentleness, 
Welcome  to  Troy  !  now,  by  Anchises'  life. 
Welcome,-  indeed  !     By  Venus'  hand  I  swear, 
No  man  alive  can  love,  in  such  a  sort, 
The  thing  he  means  to  kill,  more  excellently. 

Dio.  We  sympathize : — Jove,  let  j^neas  live. 
If  to  my  sword  his  fato  be  not  the  glory, 
A^  thousand  complete  courses  of  the  sun  ! 
But,  in  mine  emulous  honour,  let  him  die, 
With  every  joint  a  wound  ;  and  that  to-morrow  ! 

jEr<£    We  know  each  other  well. 

Dio.  We  do  ;    and  long  to  know  each  other 
worse. 

Par.  This  is  the  most  despiteful  gentle  greeting. 
The  noblest  hateful  love,  that  e'er  I  heard  of — 
What  business,  lord,  so  early  ? 


jSlne.  I  was  sent  for  to  the  king ;  but  why,  I 
know  not. 

Par,  His  purpose  meets  you.     'T  was  to  biing 
this  Greek 
To  Calchas'  house ;  and  there  to  render  him. 
For  the  enfreed  Antenor,  the  fair  Cressid  : 
Let 's  have  your  company ;  or,  if  you  please. 
Haste  there  before  us  :  I  constantly  do  think, 
(Or,  rather,  call  my  thought  a  certain  knowledge,) 
My  brother  Troilus  lodges  there  to-night ; 
Rouse  him,  and  give  him  note  of  our  approach, 
With  the  whole  quality  wherefore :  I  fear. 
We  shall  be  much  unwelcome. 

^ne.  That  I  assure  you 

Troilus  had  rather  Troy  were  borne  to  Greece, 
Than  Cressid  borne  from  Troy. 

Par.  There  is  no  help ; 

The  bitter  disposition  of  the  time 
Will  have  it  so.     On,  lord  ;  we  '11  follow  you. 

^ne.  Good  morrow,  all.  \Exit. 

Par.  And  tell  me,  noble  Diomed ;  'faith,  tell 
me  true. 
Even  in  the  soul  of  sound  good-fellowship, — 
Who,  in  your  thoughts,  merits  fair  Helen  most, 
Myself,  or  Menelaus  ? 

Dio.  Both  alike : 

He  merits  well  to  have  her,  that  doth  seek  her 
(Not  making  any  scruple  of  her  soilure,) 
With  such  a  hell  of  pain,  and  world  of  charge ; 
And  you  as  well  to  keep  her,  that  defend  her 
(Not  palating  the  taste  of  her  dishonour,) 
With  such  a  costly  loss  of  wealth  and  friends : 
He,  like  a  puling  cuckold,  would  drink  up  , 
The  lees  and  dregs  of  a  flat  tamed  piece ; 
You,  like  a  lecher,  out  of  whorish  loins 
Are  pleas'd  to  breed  out  your  inheritors : 
Both   merits   pois'd,  each  weighs   nor  less   not 

more ; 
But  he  as  he,  the  heavier  for  a  whore. 

Par.  You  are  too  bitter  to  your  countrywoman. 

Dio.  She  's  bitter  to  her  country :  Hear  me, 
Paris, — 
For  every  false  drop  in  her  bawdy  veins 
A  Grecian's  life  hath  sunk ;  for  everv  scruple 

1127 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Of  her  contaminated  carrion  weight, 
A  Trojan  hath  been  slain :  since  she  could  speak, 
She  hath  not  given  so  many  good  words  breath, 
As  for  her  Greeks  and  Trojans  sufFer'd  death. 
Par.  Fair  Diomed,  you  do  as  chapmen  do, 
Dispraise  the  thing  that  you  desire  to  buy  : 
But  we  in  silence  hold  this  virtue  well, — 
We  '11  not  commend  what  we  intend  to  sell. 
Here  lies  our  way.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  Same.     Court  before  the  House 
of  Pandarus. 

J^nter  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

Tro.  Dear,  trouble  not  yourself ;  the  morn  is 
cold. 

Cres.  Then,  sweet  my  lord,  I  '11  call  mine  uncle 
down  ; 
He  shall  unbolt  the  gates. 

Tro.  Trouble  him  not ; 

To  bed,  to  bed :  Sleep  kill  those  pretty  eyes, 
And  give  as  soft  attachment  to  thy  senses, 
As  infants'  empty  of  all  thought ! 

Cres.  (Jood  morrow  then. 

Tro.  'Pr'ythee  now,  to  bed. 

Cres.  Are  you  aweary  of  me  ? 

Tro.  0  Cressida  1  but  that  the  busy  day, 
Wak'd  by  the  lark,  hath  rous'd  the  ribald  crows, 
And  dreaming  night  will  hide  our  joys  no  longer, 
I  would  not  from  thee. 

Cres.  Night  hath  been  too  brief. 

Tro.  Beshrew  the  witch  !  with  venomous  wights 
she  stays, 
As  tediously  as  hell ;  but  flies  the  grasps  of  love. 
With  wings  more  momentary-swift  than  thought. 
You  will  catch  cold,  and  curse  me. 

Cres.  Pr'ythee,  tarry ; — 

You  men  will  never  tarry, 

0  foolish  Cressid  1 — I  might  have  still  held  oflT, 
And  then  you  would  have  tarried.     Hark  !  there 's 

one  up. 
Pa7i.  [  Within^  What,  are  all  the  doors  open 
aere? 

Tro.  It  is  your  uncle. 

Enter  Pandarus. 

Cres.  A  pestilence  on  him  1   now  will  he  be 
mocking : 

1  shall  have  such  a  life, 

Pan.  How  now,  how  now  ?  how  go  maiden- 
heads ? — Here,  you  maid ;  where  's  my  cousin 
Cressid  ? 

1128 


Cres.  Go  hang  you:Tself,  you  naughty  mocking 
uncle  ! 
You  bring  me  to  do,  and  then  you  flout  me  too. 
Pan.  To  do  what  ?  to  do  what  ? — let  her  saj 
what:  what  have  I  brought  you  to  do  ? 

Cres.  Come,  come ;  beshrew  your  heart !  you  'li 
ne'er  be  good, 
Nor  sufier  others. 

Pan.  Ha,  ha  !  Alas,  poor  wretch  !  a  poor  ca 
pocchia  ! — hast  not  slept  to-night  ?  would  he  not, 
a  naughty  man,  let  it  sleep  ?  a  bugbear  take  him  ! 

[Knocking. 
Cres.  Did   I  not  tell   you  ? — 'would  he   were 
knock'd  o'  the  head  ! — 
Who  's  that  at  door  ?  good  uncle,  go  and  see. — 
My  lord,  come  you  again  into  my  chamber ; 
You  smile,  and  mock  me,  as  if  I  meant  naughtily 
Tro.  Ha,  ha ! 

Cres.  Come,  you   are  deceiv'd,  I  think  of  no 
such  thing. —  [Knocking. 

How  earnestly  they  knock ! — pray  you,  come  in  ; 
I  would  not  for  half  Troy  have  you  seen  here. 

[Exeunt  Tro,  and  Cues. 
Pan.  [Going  to  the  door.^  Who 's  there  ?  what  'b 
the  matter  ?  will  you  beat  down  the  door  ?    How 
now  \  what  's  the  matter? 

Enter  J£nea&. 

jiEne.  Good  morrow,  lord,  good  morrow. 

Pan.  Who  's  there  ?  my  lord  ^neas  ?  By  my 
troth,  I  knew  you  not :  what  news  with  you  so 
early  ? 

JEne.  Is  not  prince  Troilus  here  ? 

Pan.  Here  I  what  should  he  do  here  ? 

jEne.  Come,  he  is  here,  my  lord,  do  not  deny 
him  ; 
It  doth  import  him  much,  to  speak  with  me. 

Pan.  Is  he  here,  say  you?  't  is  more  than  I 
know, 
I  '11  be  sworn  : — For  my  own  part,  I  came  in  late : 
What  should  he  do  here  ? 

./Ene.  Who ! — nay,  then  : — 
Come,  come,  you  'II  do  him  wrong  ere  you  are 

'ware  : 
You  '11  be  so  true  to  him,  to  be  false  to  him : 
Do  not  you  know  of  him,  yet  go  fetch  him  hither 
Go. 

As  Pandarus  is  going  otct,  enter  Troilub. 

Tro.  How  now?  what  's  the  matter? 
uEne.  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  leisure  to  salute 
you. 


Act    IV, 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE    III-IV. 


My  matter  is  so  rash :  There  is  at  hand 
Paris  your  brother,  and  Deiphobus, 
The  Grecian  Diomed,  and  our  Antenor 
Deliver'd  to  us ;  and  for  him  forthwith, 
Ere  the  first  sacrifice,  within  this  hour, 
We  must  give  up  to  Diomedes'  hand 
The  lady  Cressida. 

Tro.  Is  it  so  concluded  ? 

jEne.  By  Priam,  and  the  general  state  of  Troy  : 
They  are  at  hand,  and  ready  to  effect  it. 

Tfo,  How  my  achievements  mock  me ! 
I  will  go  meet  them :  and,  my  lord  ^neas. 
We  met  by  chance ;  you  did  not  find  me  here. 

jEne.  Good,  good,  my  lord ;   the   secrets   of 
nature 
Have  not  more  gift  in  taciturnity. 

\Exeunt  Tro.  and  ^ne. 

Pan.  Is  't  possible  ?  no  sooner  got,  but  lost  ? 
The  devil  take  Antenor !  the  young  prince  will 
go  mad.  A  plague  upon  Antenor  1  I  would,  they 
had  broke  's  neck  ! 

Enter  Cressida. 

Ores.  How  now  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?     Who 
was  here  ?  , 

Pan.   Ah,  ah ! 

CruH.  Why  sigh  you  so  profoundly  ?  where  's 
my  lord  gone  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  uncle,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  'Would  I  were  as  deep  under  the  earth 
as  I  am  above  ! 

Ores.  0  the  gods  ! — what  's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  Pr'ythee,  get  thee  in  :  'Would  thou  had'st 
ne'er  been  born  !  I  knew,  thou  would'st  be  liis 
death  : — O  poor  gentleman  ! — A  plague  upon 
Antenor ! 

Cres.  Good  uncle,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees, 
I  beseech  you,  what 's  the  matter  ? 

Pan.  Thou  must  be  gone,  wench,  thou  must 
be  gone ;  thou  art  changed  for  Antenor :  thou 
must  to  thy  father,  and  be  gone  fromTroilus; 
't  will  be  his  death  ;  't  will  be  his  bane  ;  he  can- 
not bear  it. 

Cres.  0  you  immortal  gods ! — I  v.'ill  not  go. 

Pan.  Thou  must. 

Cres.  I    will    not,    uncle :    I   have  forgot   my 
father ; 
I  know  no  touch  of  consanguinity.; 
No  kin,  no  love,  no  blood,  no  soul  so  near  me. 
As  the  sweet  Troilus. — O  you  ^ods  divine  ! 
Make  Cressid's  name  the  very  crown  of  falsehood. 
If  ever  she  leave  Troilus  !  Time,  force,  and  death. 


Do  to  this  body  what  extremes  you  can ; 
But  tlie  strong  base  and  building  of  my  love 
Is  as  the  very  centre  of  the  earth. 
Drawing  all  things  to  it. — I  '11  go  in,  and  weep ; — 
Pan.  Do,  do. 

Cres.  Tear   my  bright   hair,  and    scratch   mj 
praised  cheeks : 
Crack  my  clear  voice  with  sobs,  and  break  my 

heart 
With  sounding  Troilus.     I  will  not  go  from  Troy. 

\Exeunt, 

SCENE  III.  — ne  Same.     Before  Pandarus' 
House. 

Enter  Paris,  Troilus,  ^neas,  Deiphobus,  An- 
tenor, and  Diomedes. 

Par.  It  is  great  morning ;  and  the  hour  pre- 
fix'd 
Of  her  delivery  to  this  valiant  Greek 
Comes  fast  upon : — Good  my  brother  Troilus, 
Tell  you  the  lady  what  she  is  to  do. 
And  haste  her  to  the  purpose. 

Tro.  Walk  in  to  her  house; 

I  '11  bring  her  to  the  Grecian  presently  ; 
And  to  his  hand  when  I  deliver  her, 
Think  it  an  altar;  and  thy  brother  Troilus 
A  priest,  there  offering  to  it  his  own  heart.  \^Exit. 

Par.  I  know  what  't  is  to  love ; 
And  'would,  as  I  shall  pity,  I  could  help ! — 
Please  you,  walk  in,  my  lords.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Same.     A  Boom  in  Pandarus' 
House. 

Enter  Pandarus  and  Cressida. 

Pan.  Be  moderate,  be  moderate. 

Cres.  Why  tell  you  me  of  moderation  ? 
The  grief  is  fine,  full,  perfect,  that  I  taste. 
And  violenteth  in  a  sense  as  strong 
As  that  which  causeth  it :  How  can  I  moderate  it! 
If  I  could  temporize  with  my  affection. 
Or  brew  it  to  a  weak  and  colder  palate, 
The  like  aliayment  could  I  give  my  grief: 
My  love  admits  no  qualifying  dross: 
No  more  my  grief,  in  such  a  precious  loss. 

Enter  Troilus. 

Pan.  Here,  here,  here,  he  comes. — Ah  sweet 
ducks ! 

Cres.  0  Troilus  !  Troilus  !        [^Emhracing  him. 
Pan.  What  a  pair  of  spectacles  is  here :  Let 

1129 


ACT    IV. 


TROILUS  AND  OKESSIDA. 


me  embrace  too :  "  0  heart," — as  the  goodly  say- 
ing is,— 

0  heart,  0  heavy  heart, 

Why  sigh'st  thou  without  breaking  ? 

where  he  answers  again, 

Because  thou  canst  not  ease  thy  smart, 
By  silence,  uor  by  speaking. 

Then!  never  was  a  truer  rhyme.  Let  us  cast 
away  nothing,  for  we  may  live  to  have  need  of 
such  a  verse ;  we  see  it,  we  see  it. — How  now, 
lambs  ? 

Tro.  Cressid,  I  love  thee  in  so  strain'd  a  purity, 
That  the  blest  gods — as  angry  with  my  fancy, 
More  bright  in  zeal  than  the  devotion  which 
Cold  lips  blow  to  their  deities, — take  thee  from  me. 

Cres.  Have  the  gods  envy  ? 

Pan.  Ay,  ay,  ay,  ay  ;  't  is  too  plain  a  case. 

Cres.  And. is  it  true,  that  I  must  go  from  Troy  ? 

Tro:  A  hateful  truth. 

Cres.  What,  and  from  Troilus  too  ? 

Tro.  From  Troy,  and  Troilus. 

Cres.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Tro.  And  suddenly  ;  where  injury  of  chance 
Puts  back  leave-taking,  justles  roughly  by 
All  time  of  pause,  rudely  beguiles  our  lips 
Of  all  rejoindure,  forcibly  prevents 
Our  lock'd  embrasures,  strangles  our  dear  vows 
Even  in  the  birth  of  our  own  labouring  breath : 
We  two,  that  with  so  many  thousand  sighs 
Did  buy  each  other,  must  poorly  sell  ourselves 
With  the  rude  brevity  and  discharge  of  one. 
Injurious  time  now,  with  a  robber's  haste, 
Crams  his  rich  thievery  up,  he  knows  not  how: 
As  many  farewells  as  be  stars  in  heaven. 
With  distinct  breath  and  consign'd  kisses  to  them, 
He  fumbles  up  into  a  loose  adieu ; 
And  scants  us  with  a  single  famish'd  kiss. 
Distasted  with  the  salt  of  broken  tears. 

jEne.  [  Within^  My  lord  !  is  the  lady  ready  \ 

Tro.  Hark  !  you  are  call'd  :  Some  say,  the  Ge- 
nius so 
Cries,  "  Come  1"  to  him  that  instantly  must  die. — 
Bid  them  have  patience;  she  shall  come  anon. 

Pan.  Where  are  my  tears  ?  rain,  to  lay  this 
wind,  or  my  heart  will  be  blown  up  by  the  root ! 

\^Ex'd  Pan. 

Cres,  I  must  then  to  the  Greeks? 

Tro.  No  remedy. 

Crei.    A   woeful    Cressid    'mongst   the    merry 
Greeks ! 
When  shall  we  see  again  ? 
1130 


Tro.  Hear  me,  my  love :  Be  thou  but  true  o\ 
heart, 

Cres.  I  true  !  how  now  ?  what  wicked  deem  is 
this? 

Tro.  Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly 
For  it  is  parting  from  us  : 
I  speak  not,  "be  thou  true,''  as  fearing  thee  ; 
For  I  will  throw  my  glove  to  death  himself. 
That  there  's  no  maculation  in  thy  heart : 
But,  "  be  thou  true,"  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent  protestation  ;  be  thou  true. 
And  I  will  see  thee. 

Cres.  O,  you  shall  be  expos'd,  my  lord,  to  dangers 
As  infinite  as  imminent!  but,  I  '11  be  true. 

Tro.  And  I  '11  grow  friend  with  danger.    Wear 
this  sleeve. 

Cres.  And  you  this  glove.  When  shall  I  see  you ! 

Tro.  I  will  corrupt  the  Grecian  sentinels. 
To  give  thee  nightly  visitation. 
But  yet,  be  true. 

Cres.  O  heavens  ! — be  true,  again  ? 

Tro.  Hear  why  I  speak  it,  love ; 
The  Grecian  youths  are  full  of  quality  ; 
They  're  loving,  well  compos'd,  with  gifts  of  na- 
ture flowing, 
And  swelling  o'er  with  arts  and  exercise ; 
How  novelty  may  move,  and  parts  with  person, 
Alas,  a  kind  of  godly  jealousy 
(Which,  I  beseech  you,  call  a  virtuous  sin,) 
Makes  me  afeard. 

Cres.  O  heavens  !  you  love  me  not. 

Tro.  Die  I  a  villain  then  ! 
In  this  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  question, . 
So  mainly  as  my  merit:  I  cannot  sing. 
Nor  heel  the  high  lavolt,  nor  sweeten  talk. 
Nor  play  at  subtle  games  ;  fair  virtues  all, 
To  which   the   Grecians   are   most   prompt  and 

pregnant : 
But  I  can  tell,  that  in  each  grace  of  these 
There  lurks  a  still  and  dumb-discoursive  devil, 
That  tempts  most  cunirrngly  :  but  be  not  tempted. 

Cres.  Do  you  think,  I  will  ? 

Tro.  No. 
But  something  may  be  done,  that  we  will  not: 
And  sometimes  we  are  devils  to  ourselves. 
When  we  will  tempt  the  frailty  of  our  powers. 
Presuming  on  their  changeful  potency. 

jEne.  \Within.'\  Nay,  good  my  lord, 

Tro.  Come,  kiss ;  and  let  us  part, 

Par.  \Within?^  Brother  Troilus  ! 

Tro.  Good  brother,  come  you  hither ; 

And  bring  vEneas,  and  the  Gr*^cian.  with  vou. 


ACT    IV. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE    V. 


Cres.  My  lord,  will  you  be  true? 

Tro.  Who  I  ?  alas,  it  is  my  vice,  my  fault : 
While  others  fish  with  craft  for  great  opinion, 
[  with  great  truth  catch  mere  simplicity ; 
Whilst  some  with  cunning  gild  their  copper  crowns, 
With  truth  and  plainness  I  do  wear  mine  bare. 
Fear  not  my  trutL. ;  the  moral  of  my  wit 
Is — plain,  and  true, — there  's  all  the  reach  of  it. 

Enter  ^neas,  Paris,  Antenor,  Deiphobus,  and 

DiOMEDES. 

Welcome,  sir  Diomed  !  here  is  the  lady, 
Which  for  Antenor  we  deliver  you  : 
At  the  port,  lord,  I  '11  give  her  to  thy  hand ; 
And,  by  the  way,  possess  thee  what  she  is. 
Entreat  her  fair ;  and,  by  my  soul,  fair  Greek, 
If  e'er  thou  stand  at  mercy  of  my  sword, 
Name  Cressid,  and  thy  life  shall  be  as  safe 
As  Priam  is  in  Ilion. 

Dio.  Fair  lady  Cressid, 

So  please  you,  save  the  thanks  this  prince  expects : 
The  lustre  in  your  eye,  heaven  ia  your  cheek. 
Pleads  your  fair  usage :  and  to  Diomed 
You  shall  be  mistress,  and  command  him  wholly. 

Tro.  Grecian,  thou  dost  not  x:se  me  courteously, 
'L'o  shame  the  zeal  of  my  petition  to  thee, 
[ii  praising  her:  I  tell  thee,  lord  of  Greece, 
She  is  as  far  high-soaring  o'er  thy  praises, 
As  thou  unworthy  to  be  call'd  her  servant, 
i  charge  thee,  use  her  well,  even  for  my  charge; 
For,  by  the  dreadful  Pluto,  if  thou  dost  not. 
Though  the  great  bulk  Achilles  be  thy  guard, 
I  '11  cut  thy  throat. 

Dio.  O,  be  not  mov'd,  prince  Troilu-s  : 

Let  me  be  privileg'd  by  ray  place,  and  message. 
To  be  a  speaker  free  ;  M;hen  I  am  hence, 
I  '11  answer  to  my  lust :  And  know  you,  lord, 
I  '11  nothing  do  on  charge:  To  her  own  worth 
She  shall  be  priz'd ;  but  that  you  say — he  't  so, 
I  '11  speak  it  in  my  spirit  and  honour, — no. 

Tro.  Come,  to  the  port. — I  '11  tell  thee,  Diomed, 
This  brave  shall  oft  make  thee  to  hide  thy  head. — 
Lady,  give  me  your  hand  ;  and,  as  we  walk, 
To  our  own  selves  bend  we  our  needful  talk. 

\_Exeunt  Tro.,  Cres.,  and  Dig. 
\Trumpet  heard. 

Par.  Hark !  Hector's  trumpet. 

jEne.  How  have  we  spent  this  morning  ! 

The  prince  must  think  me  tardy  and  remiss. 
That  swore  to  ride  before  him  to  the  field. 

Par.  'T  is  Troilus'  fault :  Come,  come,  to  field 
with  him. 


Dei.  Let  us  make  ready  straight. 

^ne.  Yea,  with  a  bridegroom's  fresh  alacrity. 
Let  us  address  to  tend  on  Hector's  heels  : 
The  glory  of  our  Troy  doth  this  day  lie 
On  his  fair  worth,  and  single  chivalry.      \Exeanl 

SCENE  V. — Tlte  Grecian  Camp.     Lists  set  out. 

Enter  Ajax,  armed;  Agamemnon,  Achijxes, 
Patroclus,  Menelaus,  Ulysses,  Nestor,  and 
Others. 

Agam.  Here  art  thou  in  appointment  fresh  and 
fair. 
Anticipating  time  with  starting  courage. 
Give  with  thy  trumpet  a  loud  note  to  Troy, 
Thou  dreadful  Ajax  ;  that  the  appalled  air 
May  pierce  the  head  of  the  great  combatant. 
And  hale  him  hither. 

Ajax.  Thou,  trumpet,  there's  my  purse. 

Now  crack  thy  lungs,  and  split  thy  brazen  pipe  : 
Blow,  villain,  till  thy  sphered  bias  cheek 
Out-swell  the  cholic  of  puff''d  Aquilon  : 
Come,  stretch  thy  chest,  and  let  thy  eyes  spout 

blood ; 
Thou  blow'st  for  Hector.  \_Trumi)et  mands. 

Ulyss.  No  trumpet  answers. 

Achil.  'T  is  but  early  'hiys. 

Agam.     Is    not   yon    Diomed,    with    Calchas' 
daughter  ? 

Ulyss,  'T  is  he,  I  ken  the  manner  of  his  gait; 
He  rises  on  the  toe  :  that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  hini  from  the  earth. 

Enter  Diomeu,  with  Cressida. 

Agam.  Is  this  the  lady  Cressid  ? 

Dio.  Even  she. 

Agam.  Most  dearly   welcome   to  the  Greeks. 

sweet  lady. 
Nest.    Our   general    doth    salute   you   with  a 

kiss. 
Ulyss.  Yet  is  the  kindness  but  particular; 
'T  were  better,  .she  were  kissed  in  general. 

Nest.  And  very  courtly  counsel :  I  '11  begm. — 
So  much  for  Nestor. 

Achil.  I  '11  take  that  winter  from  your  lips,  fnir 
lady : 
Achilles  bids  you  welcome. 

Men.  I  had  good  argument  for  kissing  once. 
Patr.    But    that  's   no    argument  for   kissing 
now  : 
For  thus  popp'd  Paris  in  his  hardiment; 
And  parted  thus  you  and  your  argument. 

1181 


I 


ACT   IV. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


Ulyss.  0   deadly  gall,  an.l   theme  of  all   our 
scorns  ! 
For  which  we  lose  our  heads,  to  gild  his  horns. 
Patr.    The   first   was    Menelaus'    kiss; — this, 
mine : 
Patroclus  kisses  you. 

Men.  0,  this  is  trim  ! 

Patr.  Paris,  and  I,  kiss  evermore  for  him. 

Men.  I  Ml  have  my  kiss,  sir : — Lady,  by  your 

leave. 
Cres.  In  kissing,  do  you  render  or  receive? 
Patr.  Both  take  and  give. 
Cres.  I  '11  make  my  match  to  live. 

The  kiss  you  take  is  better  than  you  give ; 
Therefore  no  kiss. 

Men.  I  '11  give  you   boot,  I  '11  give  you  three 

for  one. 
Cres.  You  're  an  odd  man  ;  give  even,  or  give 

none. 
Men.  An  odd  man,  lady  ?  every  man  is  odd. 
Cres.  No,  Paris  is  not ;  for  you  know,  't  is  true. 
That  you  are  odd,  and  he  is  even  with  you. 
Men.  You  fillip  me  o'  the  head. 
Cres.  No,  I  '11  be  sworn. 

Ulyss.  It  were  no  match,  your  nail  against  his 
horn. — 
May  I,  sweet  lady,  beg  a  kiss  of  you  ? 
Cres.  You  may. 
Ulyss.  I  do  desire  it. 

Cres.  Why,  beg  then. 

Ulyss.  Why  then,  for  Venus'  sake,  give  me  a 
kiss. 
When  Helen  is  a  maid  again,  and  his. 

Cres.  I  am  your  debtor,  claim   it  when  't  is 

due. 
Ulyss.  Never  's   my   day,  and   then  a  kiss  of 

you. 
Dio.  Lady,  a  word ; — I  '11  bring  you  to  your 
father.  [Did.  leads  out  Cres. 

JVest,  A  woman  of  quick  sense. 
Ulyss.  Pye,  fye  upon  her! 

There  's  language  in  her  eye,  her  cheek,  her  lip, 
Nay,  her  foot  speaks;  her  wanton  spirits  look  out 
At  every  joint  and  motive  of  her  body. 
O,  these  encounterers,  so  glib  of  tongue, 
Tliat  give  accosting  welcome  ere  it  comes, 
And  wide  unclasp  the  tables  of  their  thoughts 
To  every  ticklish  reader !  set  them  down 
For  sluttish  spoils  of  opportunity. 
And  daughters  of  the  game.        [7Vampet  within. 
All.  The  Trojans'  trumpet. 
Agam.  Yonder  comes  the  troop. 

1182 


Enter   Hector,   armed ;   tEneas,   Troilus,  and 
other  Trojans,  with  Attendants. 

jEne.  Hail,  all  the  state  of  Greece  !  what  shall 
be  done 
To  him  that  victory  commands  ?  Or  do  you  pur- 
pose, 
A  victor  shall  be  known  ?  will  you,  the  knights 
Shall  to  the  edge  of  all  extremity 
Pursue  each  other ;  or  shall  they  be  divided 
By  any  voice  or  order  of  the  field  ? 
Hector  bade  ask. 

Agam.         Which  way  would  Hector  have  it! 

jEne.  He  cares  not,  he  '11  obey  conditions. 

Achil.  'T  is  done  like  Hector;  but  securely  done 
A  little  proudly,  and  great  deal  misprizing 
The  knight  oppos'd. 

uEne.  If  not  Achilles,  sir. 

What  is  your  name  ? 

Achil.  If  not  Achilles,  nothing. 

^ne.  Therefore  Achilles  :  But,  whate'er,  haovt 
this ; — 
In  the  extremity  of  great  and  little. 
Valour  and  pride  excel  themselves  in  Hector; 
The  one  almost  as  infinite  as  all. 
The  other  blank  as  nothing.     Weigh  him  well. 
And  that,  which  looks  like  pride,  is  courtesy. 
This  Ajax  is  half  made  of  Hector's  blood  : 
In  love  whereof,  half  Hector  stays  at  home ; 
Half  heart,  half  hand,  half  Hector  comes  to  seek 
This  blended  knight,  half  Trojan,  and  half  Greek." 

Achil.  A  maiden  battle  then  ? — 0,  I  perceive 
you. 

Re-enter  Diomed. 

Agam.  Here  is  sir  Diomed : — Go,  gentle  knight, 
Stand  by  our  Ajax  :  as  you  and  lord  ^neas 
Consent  upon  the  order  of  their  figlit. 
So  be  it ;  either  to  the  utterance. 
Or  else  a  breath  :^  the  combatants  being  kin. 
Half  stints  their  strife  before  their  strokes  begin. 
[Ajax  and  Hect,  enter  the  lists, 
Ulyss.  They  are  oppos'd  already. 
Agam.  What  Trojan  is  that  same  that  looks  so 

heavy  ? 
Ulyss.    The  youngest  son   of  Priam,   a  true 
knight ; 
Not  yet  mature,  yet  matchless ;  firm  of  word ; 
Speaking  in  deeds,  and  deedless  in  his  tongue ; 
Not   soon    provok'd,   nor,    being  provok'd,  soon 

calm'd : 
His  heart  and  hand  both  open,  and  both  free ; 


ACT    IV. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA, 


SCENE   V. 


For  what  he  has,  he  gives,  what  thinks,  he  shows ; 
Yet  gives  he  not  till  judgment  guide  his  bounty, 
Nor  dignifies  an  impair  thought  with  breath  :^ 
Manly  as  Plector,  but  more  dangerous ; 
For  Hector,  in  his  blaze  of  wrath,  subscribes 
To  tender  objects ;  but  he,  in  heat  of  action, 
Is  more  vindicative  than  jealous  love : 
They  call  him  Troilus  ;  and  on  him  erect 
A  second  hope,  as  fairly  built  as  Hector. 
Thus  says  JEneas ;  one  that  knows  the  youth 
Even  to  his  inches,  and,  with  private  soul, 
Did  in  great  Ilion  tluis  translate  him  to  me. 

[^Alarum.     Hect.  and  Ajax  Jiffht. 

Agarrh.  They  are  in  action. 

Nest.  Now,  Ajax,  hold  thine  own  ! 

Tro,  Hector,  thou  sleep'st ; 

Awake  thee ! 

Agam.    His  blows   are  well   dispos'd  : — there, 
Ajax! 

Dio.  You  must  no  more.  \Trumj[)eU  cease. 

jEne.  Princes,  enough,  so  please  you. 

Ajax.  I  am  not  warm  yet,  let  us  fight  again. 

Dio.  As  Hector  pleases. 

Hect.  Why  then,  will  I  no  more; — 

Thou  art,  great  lord,  my  father's  sister's  son, 
A  cousin-german  to  great  Priam's  seed : 
The  obligation  of  our  blood  forbids 
A  gory  emulation  'twixt  us  wain  : 
Were  thy  commixtion  Greek  and  Trojan,  so 
That  thou  could'stsay — "This  hand  is  Grecian  all. 
And  this  is  Trojan  ;  the  sinews  of  this  leg 
All  Greek,  and  this  all  Troy ;  my  mother's  blood 
Runs  on  tlie  dexter  cheek,  and  this  sinister 
Bounds-in  my  fatlier's ;"  by  Jove  multipotent, 
Thou   should'st   not   bear  from   me   a   Greekish 

membe. 
Wherein  my  sword  had  not  impressure  made 
Of  our  rank  feud  :  But  the  just  gods  gainsay, 
That  any  drop  thou  borrow'st  from  thy  motlier, 
My  sacred  aunt,  should  by  my  mortal  sword 
Be  drain'd  !  Let  me  embrace  thee,  Ajax  : 
By  him  that  thunders,  thou  hast  lusty  arms ; 
Hector  would  have  them  fall  upon  him  thus : 
Cousin,  all  honour  to  thee  ! 

Ajax.  I  thank  thee.  Hector: 

Thou  art  too  gentle,  and  too  free  a  man : 
I  came  to  kill  thee,  cousin,  and  bear  hence 
A  great  addition  earned  in  thy  death. 

Hect.  Not  Neoptolemus  so  mirable 
(On  whose  bright  crest  Fame  with  her  lond'st  O 

yes 
Oies,  "  This  is  he,")  could  promise  to  himself 


A  thought  of  added  honour  torn  from  Hector. 
^ne.  There  is  expectance  here  from  both  the 
sides, 
What  further  you  will  do. 

Hect.  We  '11  answer  it ; 

The  issue  is  embracement : — Ajax,  farewell. 

Ajax.  If  I  might  in  entreaties  find  success, 
(As  seld  I  have  the  chance,)  I  would  desire 
My  famous  cousin  to  our  Grecian  tents. 

Dio.    'T   is    Agamemnon's    wish :    and   great 
Achilles 
Doth  long  to  see  unarm'd  the  valiant  Hector. 

Hect.  -^neas,  call  my  brother  Troilus  to  me : 
And  signify  this  loving  interview 
To  the  expectors  of  our  Trojan  part ; 
Desire  them  home. — Give  me  thy  hand,  my  cousin; 
T  will  go  eat  with  thee,  and  see  your  knights. 
Ajax.    Great  Agamemnon   comes  to  meet  us 

here. 
Hect.  The  worthiest  of  them  tell  me  name  by 
name ; 
But  for  Achilles,  my  own  searching  eyes 
Shall  find  him  by  his  large  and  portly  size. 

Agam.  Worthy  of  arms  !  as  welcome  as  to  one 
That  would  be  rid  of  such  enemy ; 
But  that 's  no  welcome  :  Understand  more  clear. 
What 's  past,  and  what 's  to  come,  is  strew'd  with 

husks 
And  formless  ruin  of  oblivion  ; 
But  in  this  extant  moment,  faith  and  troth, 
Strain'd  purely  from  all  hollow  bias-drawing, 
Bids  thee,  with  most  divine  integrity. 
From  heart  of  very  heart,  great  Hector,  welcome. 
Hect.  I  thank  thee,  most  imperious  Agamem- 
non.'" 
Agam.  My  well-fam'd  lord  of  Troy,  no  less  to 
you.  [To  Tro. 

Men.  Let  me  confirm   my    princely  brother's 
greeting ; — 
You  brace  of  warlike  brothers,  welcome  hither. 
Hect.  Whom  must  we  answer  ? 
Men.  The  noble  Menelaus.*' 

Hect.  O  you,  my  lord  ?  by  Mars  his  gauntlet, 
thanks ! 
Mock  not,  that  I  affect  the  untraded  oath  ; 
Your  quondam  wife  swears  still  by  Venus'  glove : 
She  's  well,  but  bade  me  not  commend  her  to  you. 
Men.  Name  her  not  now,  sir  :  she  's  a  deadly 

theme. 
Hect.  O,  pardon  ;  I  ofl:end. 
Nest.  I  have,  thou  gallant  Trojan,  seen  thee  oft, 
Labouring  for  destiny,  make  cruel  way 

1188 


ACT   IV. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE    V. 


Through  ranks  of  Greekish  youth  :  and  I  have 

seen  thee, 
As  hot  as  Perseus,  spur  thy  Phrygian  steed, 
Despising  many  forfeits  and  subduements, 
When  thou  hast  hung  thy  advanced  svi^ord  i'  the 

air. 
Not  letting  it  decline  on  the  declin'd ; 
That  I  have  said  to  some  my  standers-by, 
"  Lo,  Jupiter  is  yonder,  deahng  life  !" 
And  I  have  seen  thee  pause,  and  take  thy  breath, 
When  that  a  ring  of  Greeks  have  hemm'd  thee  in, 
Like  an  Olympian  wrestling:  This  have  I  seen; 
But  this  thy  countenance,  still  lock'd  in  steel, 
I  never  saw  till  now.     I  knew  thy  grandsire. 
And  once  fought  with  him  :  he  was  a  soldier  good  ; 
But,  by  great  Mars,  the  captain  of  us  all, 
Never  like  thee :  Let  an  old  man  embrace  thee ; 
And,  worthy  warrior,  welcome  to  oar  tents. 

^ne.  'T  is  the  old  Nestor. 

Hect.  Let  me  embrace  thee,  good  old  chronicle. 
That   hast  so   long   walk'd   hand   in  hand   with 

time' : — 
Most  reverend  Nestor,  I  am  glad  to  clasp  thee. 

Nest.  I  would,  my  arms  could  match  thee  in 
contention, 
\s  ihey  contend  with  thee  in  courtesy. 

Hect.  I  would  they  could. 

Nest.  Ha! 
By  this  white  beard,  I  'd  fight  with  thee  to-morrow. 
Well,  welcome,  welcome  !     I  have  seen  the  time — 

Ulyss.  T  wonder  now  how  yonder  city  stands. 
When  we  have  here  her  base  and  pillar  by  us. 

Hect.  I  know  your  favour,  lord  Ulysses,  well. 
Ah,  sir,  there  's  many  a  Greek  and  Trojan  dead, 
Since  first  I  saw  yourself  and  Diomed 
In  Ilion,  on  your  Greekish  embassy. 

Ulyss.  Sir,  I  foretold  you   then  what  would 
ensue  : 
My  prophecy  is  but  half  his  journey  yet ; 
For  yonder  walls,  that  pertly  front  your  town. 
Yon  towers  whose  wanton  tops  do  buss  the  clouds. 
Must  kiss  their  own.  feet. 

Hect.  I  must  not  believe  you  : 

There  they  stand  yet ;  and  modestly  I  think. 
The  fall  of  every  Phrygian  stone  will  cost 
A  drop  of  Grecian  blood :  The  end  crowns  all ; 
And  that  old  common  arbitrator,  time, 
Will  one  day  end  it. 

Ulyss.  So  to  him  we  leave  it. 

Most  gentle,  and  most  valiant  Hector,  welcome  : 
After  the  general,  I  beseech  you  next 
To  feast  with  me,  and  see  me  at  my  tent. 
1184 


Achil.    I   shall    forestall    thee,   lord   Ulysses 
though  ! — '^ 
Now,  Hector,  I  have  fed  mine  eyes  on  thee ; 
I  have  with  exact  view  perus'd  thee.  Hector, 
And  quoted  joint  by  joint. 

Heel.  Is  this  Achilles  ? 

Achil.  I  am  Achilles. 

Hect.  Stand  fair,  I  pray  thee :  let  me  look  on 
thee. 

Achil.  Behold  thy  fill. 

Hect.  Nay,  I  have  done  already. 

Achil.  Thou  art  too  brief;  I  will  the  second 
time, 
As  I  would  buy  thee,  view  thee  limb  by  Jirab. 

Hect.  O,  like  a  book  of  sport  thou  'It  read  me 
o'er; 
But  there  's  more  in  me  than  thou  understand'st. 
Why  dost  thou  so  oppress  me  with  thine  eye  ? 

Achil.  Tell  me,  you  heavens,  in  which  part  of 
his  body 
Shall  I  destroy  him  ?  whether  there,  there,  or 

there  ? 
That  I  may  give  the  local  wound  a  name ; 
And  make  distinct  the  very  breach,  whereout 
Hector's  great  spirit  flew  :  Answer  me,  heavens ! 

Hect.  It  would  discredit  the  bless'd  gods,  proud 
man. 
To  answer  such  a  qifestion :  Stand  again, 
Think'st  thou  to  catch  my  life  so  pleasantly, 
As  to  prenominate  in  nice  conjecture, 
Where  thou  wilt  hit  me  dead  ? 

Achil.  I  tell  thee,  yea. 

Hect.  Wert  thou  an  oracle  to  tell  me  so, 
I  'd  not  believe  thee.     Henceforth   guard   the€ 

well : 
For  I  '11  not  kill  thee  there,  nor  there,  nor  there  ; 
But,  by  the  forge  that  stithied  Mars  his  helm, 
I  '11  kill  thee  every  where,  yea,  o'er  and  o'er. — 
You  wisest  Grecians,  pardon  me  this  brag. 
His  insolence  draws  folly  from  my  lips ; 
But  I  '11  endeavour  deeds  to  match  these  words, 
Or  may  I  never 

Ajax.  Do  not  chafe  thee,  cousin  ;— 

And  you,  Achilles,  let  these  threats  alone. 
Till  accident,  or  purpose,  bring  you  to  't : 
You  may  have  every  day  enough  of  Hector, 
If  you  have  stomach  ;  the  general  state,  I  fear, 
Can  scarce  entreat  you  to  be  odd  with  him. 

Hect.  I  pray  you,  let  us  see  you  in  the  field ; 
We  have  had  pelting  wars,  since  you  refus'd 
The  Grecians'  cause. 

Achil.  Dost  thou  entreat  me,  Hector  : 


ACT  y. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


BCKNB    I. 


I'o-morrow,  do  I  meet  thee,  fell  as  death ; 
To-night,  all  friends. 

Jlect.  Thy  hand  upon  that  match. 

Agam.  First,  all  you  peers  of  Greece,  go  to  my 
tent ; 
There  in  the  full  convive  we  :  afterwards, 
As  Hector's  leisure  and  your  bounties  shall 
Concur  together,  severally  entreat  him. — 
Beat  loud  the  tabourines,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 
That  this  great  soldier  may  his  welcome  know. 

[^Exeunt  alt  but  Tro.  and  Ulyss. 

Tro.  My  lord  Ulysses,  tell  me,  I  beseech  you. 
In  what  place  of  the  field  doth  Calchas  keep  ? 

Ulyss.  At  Menelaus'  tent,  most  princely  Troilus : 
There  Diomed  doth  feast  with  him  to-night ; 
Who  neither  looks  upon  the  heaven,  nor  earth, 


But  gives  all  gaze  and  bent  of  amcrous  view 
On  the  fair  Cressid. 

Tro.  Shall  I,  sweet  lord,  be  bound  to  you  sc 
much. 
After  we  part  from  Agamemnon's  tent, 
To  bring  me  thither  ? 

Ulyss.  You  shall  command  me,  sir. 

As  gentle  tell  me,  of  what  honour  was 
This  Cressida  in  Troy  ?     Had  she  no  lover  there 
That  wails  her  absence  ? 

Tro.  0,  sir,   to   such   as  boasting  show  theii 
scars, 
A  mock  is  due.     Will  you  walk  on,  my  lord  ? 
She  was  belov'd,  she  lov'd ;  she  is,  and  doth  : 
But,  still,  sweet  love  is  food  for  fortune's  tooth. 

[Exeunt, 


ACT   Y. 


SCENE  l.~The  Grecian  Camp.    Before  Achilles' 
Tent. 

Enter  Achilles  and  Patroolus. 

Achil.  I  '11  heat  his  blood  with  Greekish  wine 
to-night. 
Which  with  my  scimitar  I  '11  cool  to-morrow. — 
Patroclus,  let  us  feast  him  to  the  height. 

Pair.  Here  comes  Thersites. 

Enter  Thersites. 

Achil.  How  now,  thou  core  of  envy  ? 

Thou  crusty  batch  of  nature,  what 's  the  news  ? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  picture  of  what  thou  seemest, 
and  idol  of  idiot-worshippers,  here  's  a  letter  for 
thee. 

Achil.  From  whence,  fragment  ? 

Ther.  Why,  thou  full  dish  of  fool,  from  Troy. 

Patr.  Who  keeps  the  tent  now  ? 

Ther.  The  surgeon's  box,  or  the  patient's  wound. 

Patr.  Well  said.  Adversity !  and  what  need 
these  tricks  ? 

Ther.  Pr'ythee  bo  silent,  boy  ;  I  profit  not  by 
thy  talk :  thou  art  thought  to  be  Achilles'  male 
varlet. 

Patr.  Male  varlet,  you  rogue  !  what 's  that  ? 

Ther.  Why,  his  masculine  whore.     Now  the 


rotten  diseases  of  the  south,  the  guts-griping,  rup- 
tures, catarrhs,  loads  o'  gravel  i'  the  back,  leth- 
argies, cold  palsies,  raw  eyes,  dirt-rotten  livers, 
wheezing  lungs,  bladders  full  of  imposthume, 
sciaticas,  limekilns  i'  the  palm,  incurable  bone- 
ache,  and  the  rivelled  fee-simple  of  the  tetter,  take 
and  take  again  such  preposterous  discoveries  ! 

Patr.  Why  thou  damnable  box  of  envy,  thou, 
what  meanest  thou  to  curse  thus  ? 

Ther.  Do  I  curse  thee  ? 

Patr.  Why,  no,  you  ruinous  butt ;  you  whore- 
son indistinguishable  cur,^^  no. 

Ther.  No  ?  why  art  thou  then  exasperate,  thou 
idle  immaterial  skein  of  sleive  silk,  thou  green 
sarcenet  flap  for  a  sore  eye,  thou  tassel  of  a  prodi- 
gal's purse,  thou  ?  Ah,  how  the  poor  world  is 
pestered  with  such  water-flies ;  diminutives  of 
nature ! 

Patr.  Out,  gall ! 

Ther.  Finch  egg ! 

Achil.  My  sweet  Patroclus,  I  am  thwarted  quite 
From  my  great  purpose  in  to-morrow's  battle- 
Here  is  a  letter  from  queen  Hecuba ; 
A  token  from  her  daughter,  my  fair  love ; 
Both  taxing  me,  and  gaging  me  to  keep 
An   oath  that  I  have  sworn.     I  will  not  l>ieak 
it: 

1185 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCKNK  n. 


Fall,  Greeks;  fail,  fame;  honour,  or  go,  or  stay  ; 

My  major  vow  lies  here,  this  T  '11  obey. 

Come,  come,  Thersites,  help  to  trim  ray  tent ; 
This  night  in  banqueting  must  all  be  spent. — 
Away,  Patroclus.  [Uxeunt  Achil.  and  Patr. 

Ther.  With  too  much  blood,  and  too  little 
brain,  these  two  may  run  mad ;  but  if  with  too 
much  brain,  and  too  little  blood,  they  do,  I  '11  be 
a  curer  of  madmen.  Here  's  Agamemnon, — an 
honest  fellow  enough,  and  one  that  loves  quails  : 
but  he  has  not  so  much  brain  as  ear-wax :  and 
the  goodly  transformation  of  Jupiter  there,  his 
brother,  the  bull, — the  primitive  statue,  and  ob- 
lique memorial  of  cuckolds ;  a  thrifty  shoeing- 
horn  in  a  chain,  hanging  at  his  brother's  leg, — to 
what  form,  but  that  he  is,  should  wit  larded  with 
malice,  and  malice  forced  with  wit,  turn  him  to  ? 
To  an  ass,  were  nothing :  he  is  both  ass  and  ox : 
To  an  ox  were  nothing :  he  is  both  ox  and  ass. 
To  be  a  dog,  a  mule,  a  cat,  a'  fitchew,  a  toad,  a 
lizard,  an  owl,  a  puttock,  or  a  herring  without  a 
roe,  I  would  not  care ;  but  to  be  Menelaus, — I 
would  conspire  against  destiny.  Ask  me  not 
what  I  would  be,  if  I  were  not  Thersites ;  for  I 
care  not  to  be  the  louse  of  a  lazar,  so  I  were  not 
Menelaus. — Hey-day  !  spirits  and  fires  ! 

Enter  Hectou,  Troilus,  Ajax,  Agamemnon, 
Ulysses,  Nestor,  Menelaus,  and  Diomed, 
with  Lights. 

Again.  We  go  wrong,  we  go  wrong. 
Ajax.  No,  yonder  't  is ; 

There,  where  we  see  the  lights. 
Hect.  I  trouble  you. 

Ajax.  No,  not  a  whit. 
Ulyss.  Here  comes  himself  to  guide  you. 

Enter  Achilles. 

Achil.  Welcome,  brave  Hector ;  welcome,  prin- 
ces all. 
Agam.  So  now,  fair  prince  of  Troy,  I  bid  good 
night. 
Ajax  commands  the  guard  to  tend  on  you. 
Hect.  Thanks,  and  good  night,  to  the  Greeks' 

general. 
Men.  Good  night,  my  lord. 
Hect.  Good  night,  sweet  Menelaus. 

Ther.  Sweet  draught :  Sweet,  quoth  'a !  sweet 
sink,  sweet  sewer. 

Achil.  Good  night. 
And  welcome,  both  to  those  that  go,  or  tarry. 
Agam.  Good  night.   [Exeunt  Agam.  and  Men, 
1186 


Achil.  Old  Nestor  tarries ;  and  you  too,  Diomed, 
Keep  Hector  company  an  hour  or  two. 

Dio.  I  cannot,  lord  ;  I  have  important  business, 
The  tide  whereof  is  now. — Good  night,  great  Hec- 
tor. 

Hect.  Give  me  your  hand. 

Ulyss.  Follow  his  torch,  he  goes 

To  Calchas'  tent;  I  '11  keep  you  company. 

[Aside  to  Tro. 

Tro.  Sweet  sir,  you  honour  me. 

Hect.  And  so  good  night. 

[Exit  Dig.  ;  Ulyss.  and  Tro.  following. 

Achil.  Come,  come,  enter  my  tent. 

[Exeunt  Achil.,  Hect.,  Ajax,  and  Nest. 

Ther.  That  same  Diomed  's  a  false-hearted 
rogue,  a  most  unjust  knave ;  I  will  no  more  trust 
him  when  he  leers,  than  I  will  a  serpent  when  he 
hisses  :  he  will  spend  his  mouth,  and  promise, 
like  Brabler  the  hound ;  but  when  he  performs, 
astronomers  foretell  it :  it  is  prodigious,  there 
will  come  some  change ;  the  sun  borrows  of  the 
moon,  when  Diomed  keeps  his  word.  I  will 
rather  leave  to  see  Hector,  than  not  to  dog  him : 
they  say,  he  keeps  a  Trojan  drab,  and  uses  the 
traitor  Calchas'  tent:  I'll  after. — Nothing  but 
lechery  !  all  incontinent  varlets  !  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Same.     Before  Calchas'  Tent. 
Enter  Diomedes. 

Dio.  What  are  you  up  here,  ho  ?  speak. 
Cal.  [Within?^  Who  calls? 
Dio.   Diomed.  —  Calchas,  I  think.  —  Where's 
your  daughter  ? 

Cal.  [  Within.^  She  comes  to  you. 

Enter  Troilus  and  Ulysses  at  a  distance  ;  after 
them  Thersites. 

Ulyss.  Stand  where  the  torch  may  not  discover 


Enter  Cressida. 

Tro.  Cressid  come  forth  to  him  1 

Dio.  How  now,  my  charge  ? 

Cres.  Now,   ray   sweet  guardian ! — Hark  1   a 

word  with  you.  [Whispers. 

Tro.  Yea,  so  familiar ! 
Ulyss.  She  will  sing  any  man  at  first  sight. 
Ther.  And  any  man  may  sing  her  key,  if  he 

can  take  her  cleft ;  she  's  noted. 
Dio.  Will  you  remember  ? 
Cres.  Remember?  yoB. 


ACT   V. 


TKOILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE    U. 


Dio.  Nay,  but  do  then ; 

And  let  your  mind  be  coupled  with  your  words. 

Tro.  What  should  she  remember  ? 

Ulyss.  List ! 

Cres.  Sweot  honev  Greek,  tempt  me  no  more 
to  folly. 

Ther.  Roguery  J 

Dio.  Nay,  then, 

Cres.  I  '11  tell  you  what : 

Dio.  Pho  I  pho !  come,  tell  a  pin :   You  are- 
forsworn. 

Cres.  In  faith,  I  cannot :  What  would  you  have 
me  do  ? 

Ther.  A  juggling  trick,  to  be — secretly  open. 

Dio.  What  did  you  swear  you  would  bestow 
on  me? 

Cres.  I   pr'ythee,   do  not   hold   me   to   mine 
oath  ; 
Bid  me  do  any  thing  but  that,  sweet  Greek. 

Dio.  Good  night. 

Tro.  Hold,  patience ! 

Ulyss.  How  now,  Trojan  ? 

Cres.  Diomed, 


Dio.  No,  no,  good  night :  I  '11  be  your  fool-  no 
more. 

Tro.  Thy  better  must. 

Cres.  Hark  1  one  word  in  your  ear. 

Tro.  O  plague  and  madness! 

Ulyss.  You  are  mov'd,  prince ;  let  us  depart,  I 
pray  you, 
juest  your  displeasure  should  enlarge  itself 
To  wrathful  terras  :  this  place  is  dangerous ; 
The  time  right  deadly ;  I  beseech  you,  go, 

Tro.  Behold,  I  pray  you ! 

Ulyss.  Now,  good  my  lord,  go  off: 

You  flow  to  great  destruction  ;  come,  my  lord. 

Tro.  I  pr'ythee,  stay. 

Ulyss.  You  have  not  patience ;  come. 

Tro.  I  pray  you,  stay ;    by  hell,  and  all  hell's 
torments, 
^  will  not  speak  a  word. 

Dio.  And  so,  good  night. 

Cres.  Nay,  but  you  part  in  anger. 

Tro.  Doth  that  grieve  thee  ? 

0  wither'd  truth  1 

Ulyss.  Why,  how  now,  lord  ? 

Tro.  By  Jove, 

1  will  be  patient. 

Cres.  (iruardian ! — why,  Greek ! 

Dio.  Pho,  pho  I  adieu  ;  you  palter. 
Cres.  In   faith,  I  do  not;   come  hither  once 
again. 

143 


Ulyss.  You  shake,  my  lord,  at  something ;  will 
you  go? 
You  will  break  out. 

Tro.  She  strokes  his  cheek  I 

Ulyss.  Come,  come. 

Tro.  Nay,  stay    by  Jove,  I  will  not  speak  a 
word : 
There  is  between  my  will  and  all  offences 
A  guard  of  patience : — stay  a  little  while. 

Ther.  How  the  devil  luxury,  with  his  fat  rump, 
and  potato  finger,  tickles  these  together!  Fry, 
lechery,  fry ! 

Dio.  But  will  you  then  ? 

Cres.  In  faith,  I  will,  la ;  never  trust  me  else. 

Dio.  Give  me  some  token  for  the  surety  of  it. 

Cres.  I  '11  fetch  you  one.  [Exit. 

Ulyss.  You  have  sworn  patience. 

Tro.  Fear  me  not,  my  lord ; 

I  will  not  be  myself,  nor  have  cognition 
Of  what  I  feel ;  I  am  all  patience. 

He-enter  Cressida. 

Ther.  Now  the  pledge ;  now,  now,  now  1 

Cres.  Here,  Diomed,  keep  this  sleeve. 

Tro.  O  beauty  1  where 's  thy  faith  ? 

Ulyss.  My  lord, 

Tro.  I  will  be  patient ;  outwardly  I  will. 

Cres.  You  look  upon  that  sleeve:   Behold  it 
well. — 
He  loved  me — 0  false  wench  ! — Give 't  me  again. 

Dio.  Who  was  't  ? 

Cres.  No  matter,  dow  I  have 't  again. 

I  will  not  meet  with  you  to-morrow  night : 
I  pr'ythee,  Diomed,  visit  me  no  more. 

Ther.  Now  she  sharpens ; — Well  said,  whet- 
stone. 

Dio.  I  shall  have  it. 

Cres.  What,  this  ? 

Dio.  Ay,  that 

Cres.  O,  all  you  gods! — 0  pretty,  pretty  pledge  I 
Thy  master  now  lies  thinking  in  his  bed 
Of  thee,  and  me ;  and  sighs,  and  takes  my  glove, 
And  gives  memorial  dainty  kisses  to  it, 
As  I  kiss  thee. — Nay,  do  not  snatch  it  from  me, 
He,  that  takes  that,  must  take  my  heart  withal. 

Dio.  I  had  your  heart  before,  this  follows  it 

Tro.  I  did  swear  patience. 

C7'es.  You  shall  not  have  it,  Diomed;  'faith 
you  shall  not ; 
I  '11  give  you  something  else. 

Dio.  I  will  have  this :  Whose  was  it  ? 

Cres.  'T  is  no  matter 

1187 


ACT   V. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSmA. 


buuf^is   II. 


Dio.  Come,  tell  me  whose  it  was. 

Cres.  'T  was  one's  that  loved  me  better  than 
you  will. 
But,  now  you  have  it,  take  it. 

Dio.  Whose  was  it  ? 

Cres.  By  all  Diana's  waiting-women  yonder, 
And  by  herself,  I  will  not  tell  you  whose. 

Dio.  To-morrow  will  I  wear  it  on  my  helm  ; 
And  grieve  his  spirit,  that  dares  not  challenge  it. 

Tro.  "Wert  thou  the  devil,  and  wor'st  it  on  thy 
horn, 
It  should  be  challeng'd. 

Cres.  "Well,  well,  't  is  done,  't  is  past ; — And 
yet  it  is  not ; 
T  will  not  keep  my  word. 

Dio.  Why  then,  farewell : 

Thou  never  shalt  mock  Diomed  again. 

Cres.  You  shall  not  go  : — One  cannot  speak  a 
word, 
But  it  strait  starts  you. 

Dio.  I  do  not  like  this  fooling. 

Ther.  Nor  I,  by  Pluto :  but  that  that  likes  not 
you,  pleases  me  best. 

Dio.  What,  shall  I  come  ?  the  hour  ? 

Cres.  Ay,  come  : — 0  Jove  ! 

Do  come : — I  shall  be  plagu'd. 

Dio.        ^  Farewell  till  then. 

Cres.  Good  night.     I  pr'ythee,  come. — 

[Exit  Did. 
Troilus,  farewell !  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee  ; 
But  with  my  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 
Ah  !  poor  our  sex  !  this  fault  in  us  I  find, 
The  error  of  our  eye  directs  our  mind  : 
What  error  leads,  must  err ;  O  then  conclude, 
Minds,  sway'd  by  eyes,  are  full  of  turpitude. 

[Exit  Cres. 

Thcr.  A  proof  of  strength  she  could  not  pub- 
lish more, 
Unless  she  said.  My  mind  is  now  turn'd  whore. 

Ulyss.  All 's  done,  my  lord. 

Tro.  It  is. 

Ulyss.  Why  staj'^  we  then  I 

Tro.  To  make  a  recordation  to  my  soul 
Of  every  syllable  that  hero  was  spoke. 
But,  if  I  tell  how  these  two  did  co-act, 
Shall  I  not  lie  in  publishing  a  truth  ? 
Sith  yet  there  is  a  credence  in  my  heart, 
An  esperance  so  obstinately  strong. 
That  doth  invert  the  attest  of  eyes  and  ears ; 
As  if  those  organs  had  deceptious  functions. 
Created  only  to  calumniate. 
Wiis  Cressid  herel  , 

US8 


Ulyss.  I  cannot  conjure,  Trojan. 

Tro.  She  was  not  sure. 

Ulyss.  Most  sure  she  was. 

Tro.  Why,  my  negation  hath  no  taste  of  mad 
ness. 

Ulyss.  Nor  mine,  my  lord :  Cressid  was  here 
but  now. 

Tro.  Let  it  not  be  believ'd  for  womanhood ! 
Think,  we  had  mothers  ;  do  not  give  advantage 
To  stubborn  critics — apt,  without  a  theme. 
For  depravation, — to  square  the  general  sex 
By  Cressid's  rule  :  rather  think  this  not  Cressid. 

Ulyss.  What  hath  she  done,  prince,  that  can 
soil  our  mothers  ? 

Tro.  Nothing  at  all,  unless  that  this  were  she. 

Ther.  Will  he  swagger  himself  out  on  's  own 
eyes? 

Tro.  This  she  ?  no,  this  is  Diomed's  Cressida  : 
If  beauty  have  a  soul,  this  is  not  she ; 
If  souls  guide  vows,  if  vows  be  sanctimony. 
If  sanctimony  be  the  gods'  delight, 
If  there  be  rule  in  unity  itself. 
This  was  not  she.     0  madness  of  discourse. 
That  cause  sets  up  with  and  against  itself! 
Bi-fold  authority  !  where  reason  can  revolt 
Without  perdition,  and  loss  assume  all  reason 
Without  revolt ;  this  is,  and  is  not,  Cressid  ! 
Within  my  soul  there  doth  commence  a  fight 
Of  this  strange  nature,  that  a  thing  inseparate 
Divides  more  wider  than  the  sky  and  earth  ; 
And  yet  the  spacious  breadth  of  this  division 
Admits  no  orifice  for  a  point,  as  subtle 
As  is  Arachne's  broken  woof,  to  enter. 
Instance,  O  instance  !  .strong  as  Pluto's  gates ; 
Cressid  is  mine,  tied  with  the  bonds  of  heaven  ; 
Instance,  0  instance  !  strong  as  heaven  itself: 
The   bonds  of  heaven  are  slipp'd,  dissolv'd,  and 

loos'd ; 
And  with  another  knot,  five-finger-tied. 
The  fractions  of  her  faith,  orts  of  her  love. 
The  fragments,  scraps,  the  bits,  and  greasy  reliquea 
Of  her  o'er-eaten  faith,  are  bound  to  Diomed. 

Ulyss.  May  worthy  Troilus  be  half  attach'd 
With  that  which  here  his  passion  doth  express  ? 

Tro.  Ay,  Greek ;  and  that  shall   be  divulged 
well 
In  charactera  as  red  as  Mars  his  heart 
Inflam'd  with  "Venus :  never  did  young  man  fancy 
With  so  eternal  and  so  fix'd  a  soul. 
Hark,  Greek; — As  much  as  I  do  Cressid  I"". '^, 
So  much  by  weight  hate  I  her  Diomed : 
That  sleeve  is  mine,  that  he  '11  bear  on  his  helm ; 


.TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENK    III. 


Were  it  a  casque  compos'd  by  Vulcan's  skill, 
My  sword  should  bite  it :  not  the  dreadful  spout, 
Which  shipmen  do  the  hurricane  call, 
Constring'd  in  mass  by  the  almighty  sun, 
Shall  dizzy  with  more  clamour  Neptune's  ear, 
In  his  descent,  than  shall  my  prompted  sword 
Falling  on  Diomed. 

Ther.'  He  '11  tickle  it  for  his  concupy, 
Tro.  0  Cressid !  0  false  Cressid !  false,  false, 
false ! 
Let  all  untruths  stand  by  thy  stained  name. 
And  they  '11  seem  glorious. 

Ulyss.  O,  contain  yourself; 

Your  passion  draws  ears  hither. 

Enter  ^neas. 

uEne.  I  have  been  seeking  you  this  hour,  my 
lord  : 
Hector,  by  this,  is  arming  him  in  Troy ; 
Ajax,  your  guard,  stays  to  conduct  you  home. 

Tro.  Have   with  you,  prince : — My   courteous 
lord,  adieu  : — 
Farewell,  revolted  fair ! — and,  Diomed, 
Stand  fast,  and  wear  a  castle  on  thy  head ! 

Ulyss.  I  '11  bring  you  to  the  gates. 

Tro.  Accept  distracted  thanks. 

[Exeunt  Tro.,  ^ne.,  and  Ulyss. 

Ther.  'Would,  I  could  meet  that  rogue  Diomed ! 
I  would  croak  like  a  raven ;  I  would  bode,  I 
would  bode.  Patroclus  will  give  me  any  thing 
for  the  intelligence  of  this  whore :  the  parrot  will 
not  do  more  for  an  almond,  than  he  for  a  com- 
modious drab.  Lechery,  lechery  ;  still,  wars  and 
lechery;  nothing  else  holds  fashion:  A  burning 
devil  take  them  I  [Exit. 

SCENE  HI.— Troy.     Before  Priam's  Palace. 

Enter  Hector  and  Andromache. 

And.  When  was  my  lord   so  much  ungently 
temper'd. 
To  stop  his  ears  against  admonishment? 
Unarm,  unarm,  and  do  not  fight  to-day. 

Hect.  You  train  me  to  offend  you  ;  get  you  in : 
By  all  the  everlasting  gods,  I  '11  go. 

And   My  dreams  will,  sure,  prove  ominous  to 

the  day. 
Hect,  No  more,  I  say. 

Enter  Cassandra. 

CW.  Where  is  my  brother  Hector  ? 

Arid.  Here,  sister ;  arm'd,  and  bloody  in  intent : 


Consort  with  me  in  loud  and  dear  petition. 
Pursue  we  him  on  knees ;  for  I  have  dream'd 
Of  bloody  turbulence,  and  this  whole  night 
Hath    nothing   been    but  shapes    and    forms   of 
slaughter. 

Cas.  O,  it  is  true. 

Hect.  Ho  !  bid  my  trunppet  sound  I 

Cas.  No  notes  of  sally,  for  the  heavens,  sweet 
brother. 

Hect.  Begone,  T  say :  the  gods  have  heard  me 
swear. 

Cas.  The  gods  are  deaf  to  hot  and   peevish 
vows ; 
They  are  polluted  offerings,  more  abhorr'd 
Than  spotted  livers  in  the  sacrifice. 

And.  0  !  be  persuaded  :  Do  not  count  it  holy 
To  hurt  by  being  just ;  it  is  as  lawful. 
For  we  would  give  much,  to  use  violent  thefts, 
And  rob  in  the  behalf  of  charity. 

Cas.  It  is  the  purpose,  that  makes  strong  the 
vow; 
But  vows,  to  every  purpose,  must  not  hold: 
Unarm,  sweet  Hector. 

Hect.  Hold  you  still,  I  say  ; 

Mine  honour  keeps  the  weather  of  my  fate  : 
Life  every  man  holds  dear;  but  the  dear  man 
Holds  honour  far  more  precious-dear  than  life. — 

Enter  Troilus. 

How  now,  young  man  ?  raean'st  thou  to  fight  to- 
day ? 
And.  Cassandra,  call  my  father  to  persuade. 

{Exit  Cas. 
Hect.  No,  'faith,  young  Troilus ;  doff  thy  har- 
ness, youth, 
I  am  to-day  i'  the  vein  of  chivalry  : 
Let  grovr  thy  sinews  till  their  knots  be  strong. 
And  tempt  not  yet  the  brushes  of  the  war. 
Unarm  thee,  go ;  and  doubt  thou  not,  brave  boy, 
I  '11  stand,  to-day,  for  thee,  and  me,  and  Troy. 

Tro.  Brother,  you  have  a  vice  of  mercy  in  you, 
Which  better  fits  a  lion,  than  a  man, 

Hect.  What  vice  is  that,  good  Troilus  ?  chide 

me  for  it. 
Tro.  When  many  times  the  captive  Grecians 
fall. 
Even  in  the  fan  and  wind  of  your  fair  sword, 
You  bid  them  rise,  and  live. 
Hect.  O,  't  is  fair  play. 

Tro,  Fool's  play,  by  heaven,  Hector. 

Hect,  How  now  ?  how  now  ? 
Tro.  For  die  love  of  all  the  gods, 

1189 


ACT    V. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE    IV. 


Let 's  leave  the  hermit  pity  with  our  mother ; 
And  when  we  have  our  armours  buckled  on, 
The  venotn'd  vengeance  ride  upon  our  swords ; 
Spur  them  to  ruthful  work,  rein  them  from  ruth. 

Hect.  Fye,  savage,  fye ! 

Tro.  Hector,  then  't  is  wars. 

Hect.  Troilus,  I  would  not  have  you  fight  to-day. 

Tro.  WLo  should  withhold  me  ? 
Not  fate,  obedience,  nor  the  hand  of  Mars 
Beckoning  with  fiery  truncheon  my  retire ; 
Not  Priamus  and  Hecuba  on  knees. 
Their  eyes  o'ergalled  with  recourse  of  tears ; 
Nor  you,  my  brother,  with  your  true  sword  drawn, 
Oppos'd  to  hinder  me,  should  stop  my  way, 
But  by  ray  ruin. 

Re-enter  Cassandra,  with  Priam. 

Cas.  Lay  hold  upon  hira,  Priam,  hold  him  fast: 
He  is  thy  crutch  ;  now  if  thou  lose  thy  stay, 
Thou  on  him  leaning,  and  all  Troy  on  thee. 
Fall  all  together. 

Pri.  Come,  Hector,  come,  go  back : 

Thy  wife  hath   dream'd  ;  thy  mother  hath  had 

visions  ; 
Cassandra  doth  foresee  ;  and  I  myself 
Am  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt. 
To  tell  thee — that  this  day  is  ominous  ; 
Therefore,  come  back. 

Hect.  -^neas  is  a-field ; 

And  I  do  stand  engag'd  to  many  Greeks, 
Even  in  the  faith  of  valour,  to  appear 
This  morning  to  them. 

Pri.  But  thou  shalt  not  go. 

Hect.  I  must  not  break  my  faith. 
You  know  me  dutiful ;  therefore,  dear  sir, 
Let  me  not  shame  respect ;  but  give  me  leave 
To  take  that  course  by  your  consent  and  voice, 
Which  you  do  here  forbid  me,  royal  Priam. 

Cas.  0  Priam,  yield  not  to  him. 

And.  Do  not,  dear  father. 

Hect.  Andromache,  I  am  ofiended  with  you : 
Upon  the  love  you  bear  me,  get  you  in. 

[Exit  And. 

Tro.  This  foolish,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Cas.  O  farewell,  dear  Hector. 

Look,  how  thou  diest !  'look,  how  thy  eye  turns 

pale  ! 
Look,  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents  1 
Hark,  how  Troy  roars  1  how  Hecuba  cries  out ! 
How  poor  Andromache  shrills  her  dolours  forth  1 
Behold,  destruction,  frenzy,  and  amazement, 
1140 


Like  witless  antics,  one  ahother  maet. 
And  all  cry — Hector !  Hector's  dead  !  0  Hector  1 
Tro.  Away  ! — Away  ! — 
Gas.  Farewell. — Yet,  soft : — Hector,  I  take  my 
leave : 
Thou  dost  thyself  and  all  our  Troy  deceive.  [Exit. 
Hect.  You  are  amaz'd,  my  liege,  at  her  exclaim : 
Go  in,  and  cheer  the  town  :  we  '11  forth,  and  fight ; 
Do  deeds  worth  praise,  and  tell  you  them  at  night. 
Pri.  Farewell :  the  gods  with  safety  stand  about 
thee! 
[Exeunt  severally  Pri.  and  Hect.     Alarums. 
Tro.  They  are  at  it ;  hark !     Proud  Diomed, 
believe, 
I  come  to  lose  my  arm,  or  win  my  sleeve. 

As  Troilus  is  going  out,  enter,  from  the  other  side, 
Pandarus. 

Pan.  Do  you  hear,  my  lord  ?  do  you  hear  ? 

Tro.  What  now  ? 

Pan.  Here  's  a  letter  from  yon'  poor  girl. 

Tro.  Let  me  read. 

Pan.  A  whoreson  phthisic,  a  whoreson  rascally 
phthisic  so  troubles  me,  and  the  foolish  fortune  of 
this  girl ;  and  what  one  thing,  what  another, 
that  I  shall  leave  you  one  o'  these  days :  And  I 
have  a  rheum  in  mine  eyes  too ;  and  such  an 
ache  in  my  bones,  that,  unless  a  man  were  cursed, 
I  cannot  tell  what  to  think  on  't. — What  says  she 
there  ? 

Tro.  Words,   words,  mere   words,  no  matter 
from  the  heart;         [Tearing  the  letter. 
The  effect  doth  operate  another  way. — 
Go,  wind,  to  wind,  there   turn   and  change  to- 
gether.— 
My  love  with  words  and  errors  still  she  feeds ; 
But  edifies  another  with  her  deeds. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  lY.— Between  Troy  and  the  Grecian 
Camp. 

Alarums  :  Excursions.     Enter  Thersites. 

Ther.  Now  they  are  clapper-clawing  one  an- 
other ;  I  '11  go  look  on.  That  dissembling  abomi- 
nable varlet,  Diomed,  has  got  that  same  scurvy 
doting  foolish  young  knave's  sleeve  of  Troy  there, 
in  his  helm :  I  would  fain  see  them  meet ;  that 
that  same  young  Trojan  ass,  that  loves  the  whore 
there,  might  send  that  Greekish  whoremasterly 
villain,  with  the  sleeve,  back  to  the  dissembling 
luxurious  drab,  on  a  sleeveless  errand.     O'  the 


ACT   V. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENS   T. 


Other  side,  The  policy  of  those  crafty  swearing 
rascals, — that  stale  old  mouse-eaten  dry  cheese, 
Nestor ;  and  that  same  dog-fox,  Ulysses, — is  not 
proved  worth  a  blackberry : — They  set  me  up, 
in  policy,  that  mongrel  cur,  Ajax,  against  that 
dog  of  as  bad  a  kind,  Achilles  :  and  now  is  the 
cur  Ajax  prouder  than  the  cur  Achilles,  and  will 
not  arm  to-day  ;  whereupon  the  Grecians  begin 
to  proclaim  barbarism,  and  policy  grows  into  an 
ill  opinion.     Soft !  here  come  sleeve,  and  t'  other. 

Enter  Diomedes,  Troilv a  following. 

Tro.  Fly  not ;  for,  shouldst  thou  take  the  river 
Styx, 
I  would  swim  after. 

Dio.  Thou  dost  miscall  retire  : 

[  do  not  fly  ;  but  advantageous  care 
Withdrew  me  from  the  odds  of  multitude: 
Have  at  thee ! 

Ther.  Hold  thy  whore,  Grecian ! — now  for  thy 
whore,  Trojan ! — now  the  sleeve,  now  the  sleeve- 
less 1  \Exeunt  Tro.  and  Dio.,  fighting. 

Enter  Hector. 

Hect.    What  art  thou,   Greek?    art  thou  for 
Hector's  match  ? 
Art  thou  of  blood,  and  honour  ? 

2Vier.  No,  no : — I  am  a  rascal ;  a  scurvy  rail- 
ing knave ;  a  very  filthy  rogue. 

Hect.  I  do  believe  thee ; — live.  \Exit. 

Ther.  God-a-mercy,  that  thou  wilt  believe  me : 
But  a  plague  break  thy  neck,  for  frighting  me ! 
What 's  become  of  the  wenching  rogues  ?  I  think, 
they  have  swallowed  one  another :  I  would  laugh 
at  that  miracle.  Yet,  in  a  sort,  lechery  eats  itself. 
I'll  seek  them.  \Exit. 

SCENE  Y.—The  Same. 
Enter  Diomedes  and  a  Servant. 

Dio.  Go,  go,  my  servant,  take  thou  Troilus' 
horse ; 
Present  the  fair  steed  to  my  lady  Cressid  : 
Fellow,  commend  my  service  to  her  beauty  ; 
Tell  her,  1  have  chastis'd  the  amorous  Trojan, 
And  am  her  knight  by  proof. 

Serv.  I  go,  my  lord. 

[Exit  Serv. 

Enter  Agamemnon. 
Agatn.  Renew,  renew  !     The  fierce  Polydamus 
Hath  beat  down  Menon :  bastnrd  Margarelon 


Hath  Doreus  prisoner ; 
And  stands  colossus-wise,  waving  his  beam, 
Upon  the  pashed  corses  of  the  kings 
Epistrophus  and  Cedius :  Polixenes  is  slain ; 
Amphimachus,  and  Thoas,  deadly  hurt ; 
Patroclus  ta'en,  or  slain  ;  and  Palamedes 
Sore  hurt  and  bruis'd:  the  dreadful  Sagittary 
Appals  our  numbers ;  haste  we,  Dioraed, 
To  reinforcement,  or  we  perish  all. 

Enter  Nestor. 

I^est.  Go,  bear  Patroclus'  body  to  Achilles ; 
And  bid  the  snail-pac'd  Ajax  arm  for  shame. — 
There  is  a  thousand  Hectors  in  the  field : 
Now  here  he  fights  on  Galathe  his  horse. 
And  there  lacks  work ;  anon,  he  's  there  afoot, 
And  there  they  fly,  or  die,  like  scaled  sculls 
Before  the  belching  whale ;  then  is  he  yonder, 
And  there  the  strawy  Greeks,  ripe  for  his  edge. 
Fall  down  before  him,  like  the  mower's  swath : 
Here,  there,  and   every  where,  he   leaves,   and 

takes ; 
Dexterity  so  obeying  appetite. 
That  what  he  will,  he  does ;  and  does  so  much, 
That  proof  is  call'd  impossibility. 

Enter  Ulysses. 

Ulyss.    0,    courage,   courage,   princes !    great 

Achilles 
Is  arming,  weeping,  cursing,  vowing  vengeance : 
Patroclus'  wounds  have  rous'd  his  drowsy  blood, 
Together  with  his  mangled  Myrmidons, 
That  noseless,  handless,  hack'd  and  chipp'd,  come 

to  him. 
Crying  on  Hector.     Ajax  hath  lost  a  friend, 
And   foams   at   mouth,   and   he   is  arm'd,   and 

at  it. 
Roaring  for  Troilus ;  who  hath  done  to-day 
Mad  and  fantastic  execution  ; 
Engaging  and  redeeming  of  himself, 
With  such  a  careless  force,  and  forceless  care, 
As  if  that  luck,  in  very  spite  of  cunning. 
Bade  him  win  all. 

Enter  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Troilus  I  thou  coward  Trolius  1       [Exit. 
Dio.  Ay,  there,  thA-e. 

•    Nest.  So,  so,  we  draw  together. 

Enter  Achilles. 

Achil.  Where  is  tliis  Hector  ; 

Come,  come,  thou  boy-qneller,  show  thy  face ; 

1141 


ACT   V. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


scKNB  VI- nr 


I 


Know  what  it  is  to  meet  Achilles  angry. 
Hector !  where 's  Hector  ?  I  will  none  but  Hector. 

[JSxeunt. 

SCENE  Yl.— Another  Part  of  the  Field. 

JEnter  Ajax. 

Ajax.  Troilus,  thou  coward  Troilus,  show  thy 
head! 

Enter  Diomedes. 

Dvo.  Troilus,  I  say  !  where  's  Troilus  ? 
Ajax.  What  would'st  thou  ? 

Dio.  I  would  correct  him. 
Ajax.  Were  I  the  general,  thou  should'st  have 
my  oflBce, 
Ere  that  correction : — Troilus,  I  say !  what,  Troilus ! 

Enter  Troilus. 

Tro.  O  traitor  Diomed ! — turn  thy  false  fkce, 

thou  traitor, 
And  pay  thy  life  thou  ow'st  me  for  my  horse ! 
Bio.  Ha !  art  thou  there  ? 
Ajax.  I  '11  fight  with  him  alone :  stand,  Diomed. 
D'w.  He  is  my  prize,  I  will  not  look  upon. 
Tro.  Come  both,  you  cogging  Greeks ;  have  at 

you  both.  [Exeunt,  fighting. 

Enter  Hector 

Hect.  Yea,  Troilus  ?  O,  well  fought,  my  young- 
est brother ' 

Enter  Achilles. 

Achil.  Now  do  I  see  thee :    Ha ! — Have  at 
thee,  Hector. 

Hect.  Pause,  if  thou  wilt. 

Achil.  I  do  disdain  thy  courtesy,  proud  Trojan. 
Be  happy,  that  my  arms  are  out  of  use : 
My  rest  and  negligence  befriend  thee  now, 
But  thou  anon  shalt  hear  of  me  again ; 
Till  when,  go  seek  thy  fortune.  [Exit. 

Hect.  Fare  thee  well : — 

I  would  have  been  much  more  a  fresher  man, 
Had  I  expected  thee. — How  now,  my  brother  ? 

Re-enter  Troilus. 

Tro.  Ajax  hath  ta'en  ^neas  :  Shall  it  be  ? 
No,  by  the  flame  of  yonder  glorious  heaven, 
He  shall  not  carry  him  ;  I  '11  be  taken  too, 
Or  bring  him  off: — Fate,  here  me  what  I  say ! 
I  reck  not  though  I  end  my  life  to-day.        [Exit. 
1U2 


Enter  one  in  sumptuous  Armour. 

Hect.  Stand,  stand,  thou   Greek;    thou   art  a 
goodly  mark : — 
No  ?  wilt  thou  not  ? — I  like  thy  armour  well ; 
I  '11  frush  it,  and  unlock  the  rivets  all, 
But  I  'II  be  master  of  it : — Wilt  thou  not,  beast, 

abide  ? 
Why  then,  fly  on,  I  '11  hunt  thee  for  thy  hide. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  Yll.—The  Same 

Enter  Achilles,  with  Myrmidons. 

Achil.  Come  here  about  me,  you  my  Myrmi- 
dons ; 
Mark  what  I  say.  — Attend  me  where  I  wheel : 
Strike  not  a  stroke,  but  keep  yourselves  in  breath  ' 
And  when  I  have  the  bloody  Hector  found, 
Empale  him  with  your  weapons  round  about ; 
In  fellest  manner  execute  your  arms. 
Follow  me,  sirs,  and  my  proceedings  eye  ; — 
It  is  decreed — Hector  the  great  must  die. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  Ylll.--The  Sami. 

Enter   Menelaus   and   Paris,  fighting :    then 
Thersites. 

Ther.  The  cuckold,  and  the  cuckold-maker  are 
at  it :  Now,  bull!  now,  dog  !  'Loo,  Paris,  'loo  I 
now  my  double-henned  sparrow  !  'loo,  Paris,  'loo ! 
The  bull  has  the  game  : — 'ware  horns,  ho ! 

[Exeunt  Paris  and  Men. 

Enter  Margarelon. 

Mar.  Turn,  slave,  and  fight. 

Ther.  What  art  thou  ? 

Mar.  A  bastard  son  of  Priam's. 

Ther.  I  am  a  bastard  too  ;  I  love  bastards :  I 
am  a  bastard  begot,  bastard  instructed,  bastard  in 
mind,  bastard  in  valour,  in  every  thing  illegiti- 
mate. One  bear  will  not  bite  another,  and  where- 
fore should  one  bastard  ?  Take  heed,  the  quarrel  'a 
most  ominous  to  us :  if  the  son  of  a  whore  fight 
for  a  whore,  he  tempts  judgment:  Farewell,  bas- 
tard. 

Mar.  The  devil  take  thee,  coward.       [Exewit. 

SCENE  IX. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  Hector. 
Hect.  Most  putrified  core,  so  fair  without, 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


SCENE   JC-Xl. 


Thy  goodly  armour  thus  liath  cost  thy  life. 
Now  is   my  day's  work  done ;    I  '11   take   good 

breath  ! 
Rest,  sword !  thou  hast  thy  fill  of  blood  and  death ! 
\^Puts  off  his  Helmet,  and  hangs  his  Shield 
behind  him. 

Enter  Achilles  and  Myrmidons. 

Achil.  Look,  Hector,  how  the  sun  begins  to 
set; 
How  ugly  night  comes  breathing  at  his  heels: 
Even  with  the  vail  and  dark'ning  of  the  sun. 
To  close  the  day  up,  Hector's  life  is  done. 

Hect.  I  am  unarm'd ;  forego  this  vantage,  Greek. 
Achil.  Strike,  fellows,  strike  ;  this  is  the  man  I 
seek.  [Hect.  falls. 

So,  Ilion,  fall  thou  next !  now,  Troy,  sink  down ; 
Here  lies  thy  heart,  thy  sinews,  and  thy  bone. — 
On,  Myrmidons ;  and  cry  you  all  amain, 
"  Achilles  hath  the  mighty  Hector  slain." 

\A  Retreat  sounded. 
Elark !  a  retreat  upon  our  Grecian  part. 

Myr.  The  Trojan  trumpets  sound  the  like,  my 

lord. 
Achil.  The  dragon  wing  of  night  o'erspreads 
the  earth, 
A».d,  stickler  like,  the  armies  separate. 
My  half-supp'd  sword,  that  frankly  would  have 

fed, 
Pleas'd  with  this  dainty  bit,  thus  goes  to  bed. — 

\^Sheaths  his  Sword. 
Come,  tie  his  body  to  my  horse's  tail ; 
Along  the  field  I  will  the  Trojan  trail.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  X.—The  Same. 

Enter  AaAMEMNON,  Ajax,  Menelaus,  Nestor, 
DiOMEDKS,  and  Others,  marching.  Shouts 
within. 

Agam.  Hark!  hark!  what  shout  is  that? 

Nest.  Peace,  drums. 

[Within:\  Achilles  I 

Achilles !  Hector 's  slain  !  Achilles  ! 

Dio.  The   bruit  is — Hector  's   slain,  and   by 
Achilles. 

Ajax.  If  it  be  so,  yet  bragless  let  it  be ; 
Great  Hector  was  as  good  a  man  as  he. 

Agam.  March  patiently  along  : — Let  one  be  sent 
To  pray  Achilles  see  us  at  our  tent. — 
If  in  his  death  the  gods  have  us  befriended. 
Great  Troy  is  ours,  and  our  sharp  wars  are  ended. 

[Exeunt,  marching. 


SCENE  XL— Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  ^neas  and  Trojans. 

^ne.  Stand,  ho !  yet  are  we  masters  of  the  field 
Never  go  home ;  here  starve  we  out  the  night. 

Enter  Troilus. 

Tro.  Hector  is  slain. 

All.  Hector  ?— The  gods  forbid ! 

Tro.  He  's  dead  ;  and  at  the  murderer's  horse's 

tail. 
In  beastly   sort,  dragg'd  through  the  shameful 

field.— 
Frown  on,  you  heavens,  effect  your  rage  with 

speed ! 
Sit,  gods,  upon  your  thrones,  and  smile  at  Troy ' 
I  say,  at  once  let  your  brief  plagues  be  mercy. 
And  linger  not  our  sure  destructions  on  ! 

^ne.  My  lord,  you  do  discomfort  all  the  host. 
Tro.  You  understand  me  not,  that  tell  me  so 
I  do  not  speak  of  flight,  of  fear,  of  death  ; 
But  dare  all  imminence,  that  gods  and  men 
Address  their  dangers  in.     Hector  is  gone ! 
Who  shall  tell  Priam  so,  or  Hecuba  ? 
Let  him,  that  will  a  screech-owl  aye  be  call'd. 
Go  in  to  Troy,  and  say  there — Hector's  dead  : 
There  is  a  word  will  Priam  turn  to  stone ; 
Make  wells  and  Niobes  of  the  maids  and  wives, 
Cold  statues  of  the  youth  ;  and,  in  a  word. 
Scare  Troy  out  of  itself.     But,  march,  away  : 
Hector  is  dead ;  there  is  no  more  to  say. 
Stay  yet ; — You  vile  abominable  tents. 
Thus  proudly  pight  upon  our  Phrygian  plains, 
Let  Titan  rise  as  early  as  he  dare, 
I  '11  through  and  through  you  ! — And  thou,  great* 

siz'd  coward ! 
No  space  of  earth  shall  sunder  our  two  hates  ; 
I  '11  haunt  thee  like  a  wicked  conscience  still, 
That  mouldeth  goblins  swift  as  frenzy  thoughts. — 
Strike  a  free  march  to  Troy ! — with  comfort  go  : 
Hope  of  revenge  shall  hide  our  inward  woe. 

[Exeunt  .^neas  and  Trojans. 

As  Troilus  is  going  out,  enter,  from  the  other  side. 
Pandabus. 

Pan.  But  hear  you,  hear  you. 
Tro.  Hence,  broker  lackey !  ignomy  and  shame 
Pursue  thy  life,  and  live  aye  with  thy  name  I 

[Exit  Tro. 

Pan.  A  goodly  med'cine  for  my  aching  bones  1 

— O  world  !  world  !  world  1  thus  is  the  poor  agent 

1148 


ACT    V. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


8CBNE    XJ. 


despised !  O  traitors  and  bawds,  how  earnestly 
are  you  set  a'  work,  and  how  ill  requited  !  Why 
should  our  endeavour  be  so  loved,  and  the  per- 
formance so  loathed  ?  what  verse  for  it  ?  what  in- 
stance for  it? — Let  me  see: — 

Full  merrily  the  humble-bee  doth  sing, 
Till  he  hath  lost  his  honey,  and  his  sting : 
And  being  once  subdued  in  armed  tail, 
Sweet  honey  and  sweet  notes  together  fail. — 
Ol^ood  traders  in  the  flesh,  set  this  in  your  painted 
olotbn. 


As  many  as  be  here  of  pander's  hall, 
Your  eyes,  half  out,  weep  out  at  Pandar's  fall : 
Or,  if  you  cannot  weep,  yet  give  some  groans. 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  aching  bones. 
Brethren,  and  sisters,  of  the  hold-door  trade, 
Some  two  months  hence  my  will  shall  here  b€ 

made: 
It  should  be  now,  but  that  my  fear  is  this. — 
Some  galled  goose  of  Winchester  would  hiss  : 
Till  then  I  '11  sweat,  and  seek  about  for  eases ; 
And,  at  that  time,  bequeath  you  my  diseases. 

\Exii 


lOTES  TO  TEOILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


'  Orgulous,  i.  e.,  proud,  disdainftil. 

2  Sj)err  up  the  sons  of  Troy. 

To  sperre,  or  spar,  from  the  old  Teutonic  word  Speren, 
eignifies  to  shut  up  or  defend  by  bars. 


And  hither  am  I  come 


A  prologue  armed. 

The  speaker  of  the  prologue  was  to  be  habited  in  ar- 
tncr,  not,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  ''defyinfj  tlie  audience,  in 
conndence  of  either  the  author's  or  actor's  abilltiea,  but 
merely  in  a  character  suited  to  the  subject,  in  a  dress  of 
war  before  a  warlilie  play." 

*  Leaps  o''er  the  vaunt. 
That  is,  the  avant,  what  went  before. 

'  She "«  a  fool  to  stay  behind  her  father. 

Caichas,  the  father  of  Cressida,  was  a  priest  of  Troy,  who 
being  eent  by  Priam  to  consult  the  oracle  at  Delphi,  con- 
cerning the  event  of  the  war,  and  finding  that  the  Greelcs 
would  obtain  the  victory,  he  deserted  to  them,  and  never 
returned  to  his  own  country. 

•  Between  our  Ilium. 

Ilium  is  here  used  to  mean  the  royal  palace  of  Priam, 
but  Mr.  Steevens  says  that  Ilium,  properly  speaking,  is  the 
name  of  the  city ;  Troy,  that  of  the  country. 

T  Into  a  compassed  windmo. 
That  is,  a  circular  or  bow-window. 

^  Is  he  so  young  a  man,  and  so  old  a  lifter  f 
Lifter  is  here  used  equivocally  to  mean  thief. 

*  Bounding  between  the  two  nwist  elements, 
Like  Perseus''  horse. 
Pegasus  is  the  only  flying-horse  that  we  hear  of  in  an- 
cient mythology,  and  he  did  not  belong  to  Perseus,  but 
Belleroplion.    But  Shakespeare  followed  the  author  of  The 
Destruction  of  Troy,  in  which  he  found  the  following  ac- 
count :—■"  Of  the  blood  that  issued  out   (from  Medusa's 
head)  there  engendered  Vfi^mus,  orlhe  flying-horse.    By 
the  flying-horse  that  was  engendered  of  the  biood  issued 
144 


from  her  head,  is  understood,  that  of  hei  riches  issuing  of 
that  realme,  he  (Perseus)  founded  and  made  a  ship,  named 
Pegase,  and  this  ship  was  likened  unto  a  horse  flying." 

'0  The  brise,  i.  e.,  the  gad  or  horse-fly. 

"  The  heavens  themselves,  the  planets,  and  this  centre. 

By  this  centre,  Ulysses  means  the  earth  itself,  not  tna 
centre  of  the  earth.  According  to  the  Ptolemaic  system, 
the  earth  is  the  centre  of  the  solar  system. 

"  Let  blockish  JJcut. 

Shakespeare  appears  to  have  confounded  Ajax  Telamo- 
nius  with  Ajax  Oileus.  Perhaps  he  was  led  into  this  erroi 
by  the  author  of  The  Destruction  of  Troy,  who,  in  describ- 
ing these  two  persons,  improperly  calls  Ajax  Oileus,  simply 
Ajax,  as  the  more  eminent  of  the  two. 

"  The  plague  of  Greece  upon  thee. 

Probably  an  allusion  to  the  plague  supposed  to  be  senl 
by  Apollo  on  the  Greek  army. 

"  An  assinego,  i.  e.,  an  ass. 

•»  Every  tit?ie  soul,  ''mongst  many  thousand  disme». 

Disme  is  the  tithe  or  tenth.  Every  tenth  among  manj 
thousand  tenths. 

'•  And,  for  an  old  aunt. 

Priam's  sister,  Hesione,  whom  Hercules  gave  to  Tele- 
mon,  who  by  her  had  Ajax. 

"  Our  fire-brand  brother, 

Hecuba,  when  pregnant  with  Paris,  dreamed  she  would 
be  delivered  of  a  flaming  torch. 

'»  The  soil  of  Iter  fair  rape. 

Eape  anciently  signified  the  carrying  away  of  a  female 
without  any  idea  of  personal  violence. 

»» Aristotle. 

Aristotle  was  not  born  until  382  years  before  Christ,  and 
Troy  was  taken  by  the  Greeks  1184  years  before  Christ* 
so  that  the  poet  is  guilty  of  an  anachronism  of  more  than 
eight  hundred  years. 

1145 


NOTES  TO  TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


*  Mi:Jc4  that  demand  of  tlit  prover. 
The  folio  readH,  to  thy  Creator.    The  quarto  has,  of  the 
procer,  but  the  meaning  is,  I  think,  the  same.     Make  that 
dciuan  I  (i.  e.,  why  thou  art  a  fool  ?)  to  thy  Creator  who 
li;itli  miide  thee  one. 

'^*  An  you  draw  backward,  we  HI  put  you  i'  the  fills. 

That  is,  in  the  shafts.     Fills  is  a  word  used  in  some 
counties  for  thills,  the  shafts  of  a  cart  or  waggon. 

"  A  hiss  in  fee-farm. 
That  is,  a  prolonged  kiss,  a  kiss  of  unlimited  duration. 

»'  As  true  as  steel,  as  plantage  to  the  moon. 
At  true  as  steel  is  an  old  proverbial  expression,  a  sword 
of  good  steel  being  a  weapon  on  which  its  owner  could 
rely.  Plantage  probably  means  vegetation,  plants  of  any 
kind,  and  the  allusion  is  to  the  common  opinion  of  the 
influence  which  the  moon  was  supposed  to  possess  over 
the  vegetable  kingdom. 

**  That  man — hoto  dearly  ever  parted. 
However  excellently  endowed. 

*  Wlio,  in  his  circumstance. 
That  is,  in  the  detail  or  circumduction  of  his  argument. 

'"' '  7  i,?  known,  Achilles,  that  you  are  in  love 
With  one  of  Priam's  daughters. 

i'olycena,  in  tlie  act  of  ma  Tying  whom  he  was  after- 
jfiirdft  killed  by  Paris. 
1144 


^  This  blended  knight,  half  JVojan,  and  half  Greek. 
Ajax  and  Hector  were  cousins,  Ajax  being  the  son  of 
Hesione,  the  sister  of  Priam  and  aunt  of  Hector. 

»8  Or  else  a  breath. 

A  breathing,  a  friendly  encounter  just  sufficient  to  makt 
the  combatants  pant  with  their  exertion. 

"  Nor  dignifies  an  impair  thought  with  breath. 
Does  not  utter  an  immature  or  unsuitable  thought 

**  Most  imperious  Agamemnon. 
Imperious  and  imperial  had  the  same  meaning. 

»>  The  noble  Menelaus. 

Menelaus  would  scarcely  apply  the  epithet  nable,  to  him- 
self; Mr.  Ritson  supposes  that  this  sentence  should  be 
spoken  by  ^neas. 

*"  I  shall  forestall  thee,  lord  Ulysses,  thou. 

By  the  utterance  of  this  line  as  it  stands,  Achilles  would 
evidently  insult  Ulysses.  Should  we  not  read,  though  for 
thou  ? 

*'  Vou  ruinous  butt ;  you  whoreson  nndistinguishable  our. 
This  is  said  in  allusion  to  the  deformity  of  Thersites ; 
he  is  called  a  ruinous  butt,  on  account  of  his  graceless 
and  lump-like  figure ;   and  indistinguishable,  because  ha 
is  of  an  unnatural  and  undeterminato  shape. 


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